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I get into the back with Valentina while Magda sits up front with Quincy.
“Drive,” she tells my bodyguard.
Quincy and Magda are quiet, I guess because of the girl. An intense awareness of the woman next to me and my power over her spreads through my body, making me hard.
Fuck me. I own her.
She’s mine.
The thought gives me a head rush. She’s so small she looks like the doll Magda accused me of wanting to play with. Upright, Valentina barely reaches my chest. Her bones are fragile enough to crush under the lightest pressure. If I hug her too tight, her ribs may crack. I can wrap one hand around her slender neck. How hard I choose to close my fingers will be the discerning factor between life and death. Yet, she attacked me when Rhett shot her dog. She gave me an order when she told me to let Charlie Haynes go. She’s strong and loyal.
I’m both fascinated and jealous of her love for her brother. No one has ever fought for me like that, and I doubt anyone ever will. Throwing any duty I see fit into the package was a test. I wanted to see how far she was willing to go for Charlie, not that her decision would’ve changed anything. I took ownership of her the minute I laid eyes on her. Last night, I already knew I was going to take her. Regardless.
When the club manager at Napoli’s called to let me know my mother’s target was in, the said target being Charlie, my plan was to go in, take Charlie out, and then his sister, who would’ve been home alone. Making examples of people who don’t pay is standard procedure. Some people don’t fear for themselves, but they always fear for their families. By Magda’s design, Valentina would’ve been the sacrifice to serve as a reminder to our debtors as long as they owe, their families aren’t safe.
Then I stepped out of the office, and there she was, all tits, ass, and legs. No woman, except for the prostitutes, goes into Napoli’s willingly. A nerve pinches between my shoulder blades when I think of what could’ve happened to her had I not been there. She’s either extremely naïve or stupidly brave. After this morning, I suspect the latter.
Come to think of it, I don’t get how she survived here this long. According to Jerry, she’s been residing in Berea for six years. The shithole she lived in is in drug valley. It’s a surprise the drug and sex lords haven’t kidnapped and sold her or a street gang hasn’t raped and killed her yet. There are infinitely dark things that can happen to an unprotected, beautiful girl in this neighborhood.
I watch her from the corner of my eye. In the twenty minutes we’ve being driving, she hasn’t said a word. Her brown hair is long and wavy, curling down her shoulders. A clean smell clings to her, like fragrance shampoo or body lotion. I like it. Complex perfumes give me a headache. In the white shorts and yellow tank top, her toned legs and rounded breasts are exposed to me. So is the vein that pulses under the golden skin of her neck. Her fear excites me. Her courage intrigues me. Long, dark lashes shutter the expression in her brown eyes from me. She’s pretending to look through the window, but I know she’s aware of me, and the gun resting in my lap.
The weapon is cool in my hand. I’m long since past the stage where my palms get sweaty before a job. I don’t mind the killing. I live in a violent city. Only the toughest survive, and I’m a survivor. I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger if anyone threatens or harms my family. Lay a finger on my property, and I’ll break it off. I was the kind of kid who took pleasure in breaking other boys’ toys. I still break. Mostly bones, these days. When it comes to hearts, I only break what’s already broken. That way, I don’t have to take responsibility for anyone’s feelings. Now I’ve taken responsibility for a person on a whole different level. At least there’s no risk of breaking Valentina’s heart. She already hates me, and with what I’m planning for her body, she’ll only hate me more, but she’ll need me with equal intensity. Of that, I’ll make sure.
Her gaze widens fractionally as we pull up to our property. It’s a double-story mansion on big grounds surrounded by a six feet-wall fitted with electrified barbed wire and twenty-four hour, armed guards. In this city, only people with money are safe. She keeps her face perfectly blank as we clear the gates. The original Frank Emley design dates from the early 1900s and combines various styles with a strong Victorian influence, iron work, stone walls, and art nouveau stained glass windows. It’s smack-bam in the heart of Parktown, in the middle of the homes of the bankers, diamond dealers, politicians, and everyone else who can be bought.
