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His sons quit their roughhousing as they approach, and their eyes land appreciatively on Bianka, which only further exacerbates me. My hands ball instinctually into fists, and I note several of the bodyguards’ eyes drop to acknowledge the threatening gesture.Fuck.I try to mask my anger by offering a respectful nod to the Marchetti twins before turning my gaze back to their father.
“And who might this beautiful youngbellezzabe?” Lorenzo asks as his gaze turns to my sister.
“This is Bianka, my ward,” I state, hinting that she is under my protection and not to be messed with.
“A pleasure,” Lorenzo says, scooping up her hand and gently kissing her knuckles as a blush colors her cheeks.
“I hope you two find our beautiful campus to your liking. Rosehill College is a pride and joy of the Marchettis. Our family has attended this school for generations. And, of course, ifbellaBianka wishes to enroll, I would happily permit it.” He then extends his hand to me in a show of amnesty.
Despite the bile that rises in my throat at his blatant powerplay, I grasp his hand firmly, knowing to do any less would be a sign of deep disrespect.
As we shake, Lorenzo pulls me forward, clasping my shoulder as he leans in to murmur, “But don’t get any fanciful ideas about encroaching on our territory while she’s here.”
My nostrils flare as my lips press into a tight line, and I force my face into a neutral expression just in time for Lorenzo to release me once again. I’m not used to being muscled into cooperation, and it goes against my very nature not to lash out and teach this older man a lesson. If he weren’t surrounded by men who look well trained in the art of pain, I would be sorely tempted to strike him, but I can’t do that. Not if I want to have any peace of mind over the four years while Bianka attends Rosehill. Still, my pulse roars in my ears as my temper threatens to overflow my self-restraint.
“That’s very generous of you, Don Lorenzo. I’m honored to have the opportunity to attend such a beautiful college,” Bianka says, her tone as light as the hand she tucks into my elbow.
But that soft, calming gesture is all it takes to anchor me, and I allow her to guide me around Lorenzo Marchetti and his men as a devious smile curls the corner of the don’s lips. I desperately want to punch something, but I’m grateful that Bianka was able to extract us from the conversation so gracefully. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if I were to punch the head of the Marchetti family.
Wordlessly, I pat my half sister’s dainty fingers as I rein in my anger, and Bianka begins gushing about her excitement once more–though her tone now is more forced, as though she’s attempting to distract me from my mood rather than unable to contain her emotions. I let her divert me, and as we find the registration line designated for the second half of the alphabet and wait our turn, the tension slowly eases from my muscles.
Slowly, I start to take in the world around me once more, and as we near the front of the line, I turn to examine the line next to us containing students and their families with last names from the first half of the alphabet. It’s then that my gaze lands on the dark-haired girl waiting at the front of her respective line.
I recognize her immediately as the girl I saw walking down the streets of Englewood well over a year ago now. Though her ripped black jeans and leather jacket have been replaced with far more revealing cut-off shorts and a black crop top, I would recognize her punk rock look and unique wispy pixie cut anywhere. The sharp contours of her striking profile have somehow only grown more beautiful since the day I first saw her, and with her wardrobe now putting her impressive figure on display, I find myself impossibly more drawn to her. She has the same well-worn combat boots as the day we met, and somehow, they only make her outfit sexier. A combination of delicate and fierce, her appearance manages to contradict itself in the most intriguing way.
A memory tickles the back of my mind as I recall the first time I saw the girl. Whitney, I believe she called herself. I was driving Bianka home from school, showing off my new Lamborghini to my kid sister, who couldn’t shut up about how she wanted a car just like it for her birthday.
I asked Bianka about Whitney as I slowed to follow her, and Bianka told me they went to school together, that Whitney was a year ahead of her in school and a dancer. Not just any kind of dancer–a ballerina. My lips curl into a smile as I recall thinking it humorous that someone who gives off don’t-fuck-with-me vibes could possibly want to be a ballerina.
I also remember how our conversation was so abruptly cut short when one of my Bratva men called to inform me that my father had been shot. The memory twists my gut as it surges, fresh and sharp, into my mind as though it had only happened yesterday.
Since that awful day, I’ve had my hands full taking over my father’s role aspakhan. At the age of twenty-five, I was far younger than the averagepakhan. Far younger than the majority of my men even. It proved a lot to manage–especially since my father’s death marked the start of a conflict with a new Bratva moving into our territory from the south. I’ve been so absorbed with all the challenges of running my father’s empire that I haven’t had time to think about the fiercely sexy almost-of-age girl I stopped to flirt with that day. But now, as my eyes follow her up to the counter, I feel that same inexplicable attraction that had driven me to pull over and speak to her on that cold February day.
The dark-haired girl still exudes the same ferocious persona as she steps up to speak with the woman behind the desk, but when she speaks, her tone is far more vulnerable than I recall it being on the day I approached her. Something in the way it trembles slightly draws me in, and I can’t help but eavesdrop as Whitney confirms her name and lays out her financial troubles for the bespectacled helper.
So distracted by her predicament, I hardly notice when it’s Bianka’s turn in line, and I let her take charge of the conversation as I continue to listen in on Whitney’s request for an extension and whether or not the school might grant her some more time.
My hackles rise protectively when the man behind Whitney starts to grumble about her taking too long, but before I can say anything, Whitney tosses a violent glare over her shoulder that stops the man’s words short. I almost laugh out loud at the power of her gaze. I wouldn’t be surprised if the man wet himself over it. She certainly embodies the figure of speech “if looks could kill.”
A period of silence follows as the bespectacled registration secretary gets on the phone, and I study Whitney more closely, taking in the tension that raises her shoulders, the way she chews her nails aggressively, as though they’ve personally offended her. I want to take those hands and tie them up so she can’t continue to assault them so mercilessly.
The thought strikes an idea in my mind, and suddenly, I’m keen on learning how Whitney’s situation will resolve. Because if she doesn’t get the extension that she needs, I have a plan. I’ve been without a woman to meet my desires for weeks now, having let the last one go abruptly after she started hinting at having deeper feelings and wanting to make our arrangement more personal.
That’s left me sexually frustrated, and the thought of claiming Whitney as my own in exchange for paying her tuition seems like a win-win to me. She can leave her financial troubles behind, and I’ll get a taste of the feisty girl I started to spar with and had to leave so abruptly. My cock begins to swell against the seam of my slacks at the thought of this new arrangement, and though I know it’s cruel, I silently hope the school refuses the girl her extension–if only to make my offer sound more appealing to her.
The secretary hangs up her phone and turns to Whitney once more. “Alright, I’ve spoken with the dean, and I can give you a week’s extension for your payment.”
“A week?” Whitney sounds crushed.
“That’s all I can give you,” the woman murmurs. “I hope it helps.”
“Thank you so much.” Whitney applies a painfully forced smile to her lips and starts to turn as her helper wishes her luck.
And suddenly, I’m caught staring at her as her dark, captivating eyes meet mine. They shine with unshed tears that turn the tip of her nose a light pink, and in that instant, I know that her extension won’t help. My heart twinges unexpectedly in sympathy even as my chest swells with silent victory. She’s mine.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper into Bianka’s ear before stepping out of line to approach Whitney.
She stops in place, as if waiting to hear me speak, and I oblige her, adopting my most charming tone. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing your situation, and I thought I might have a word with you.”
