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They break through the crush of bodies and I notice how they are dressed. Unlike his usual attire of tight-fitting dress shirt and slacks or dark jeans, Atlas is wearing a charcoal grey, tailored suit. Open at the neck and with no tie, his black button up shirt reveals the strong column of his neck.
My brows furrow as my eyes take in how his companions are dressed the same way. Their suits are a rung down on the designer ladder, but nowhere near off the rack.
I go cold inside, a fist squeezing my heart so tight if it was a piece of coal, it would become a diamond.
Atlas looks like Tino used to when my husband went out to work. The suit is probably Hugo Boss and not Armani like Tino's, but that attitude Atlas wears it with is all too familiar. Confidence oozes off him in overwhelming waves.
The look he gives to the people stepping out of his way is both expectant and arrogant. He's used to intimidating others. How am I only just now noticing that?
Because my ovaries have been overriding my common sense since the first moment our eyes met.
That emotionless expression on Atlas's face is eerily familiar too. Every made man I knew back in Detroit had perfected that cold and detached air.
Suddenly everything clicks into place in my brain.
Atlas coming to Portland with his brothers and cousins. They're here to build a business all right, but they aren't simple nightclub owners like me.
They're mafia. FreakingGreekmafia and they are claiming territory in the city I have made my home.
Why didn't I know? When Tino and his father talked about Zesti, they never mentioned the clubs are owned by a syndicate. I should have realized though. My husband and father-in-law would never have admired a completely legitimate business the way they did Zesti. Much less want to emulate them.
Atlas's blue eyes warm slightly when they catch mine, but he doesn't smile. Why should he? He's not here for me. He's working.
Nausea rises in the back of my throat, and I force myself to swallow. The only way I get through this encounter is if I can pretend to be as disconnected from my emotions as Atlas.
If I have a single doubt about what Atlas is, the three large men flanking him pound the final nail into the coffin of any hope he's a regular guy. I've known men like them before. I grew up around them. They are like the men my father has working for him, some of whom I even called uncle.
The way these men's watchful gazes take in my club's patrons, the tense set of their shoulders, like they are ready to spring into action…it all spells one thing.
They are the muscle. Not that Atlas needs any, but like my dad used to say, it's all about perception.
Atlas stops in front of me, and I want so badly for him to say something,anythingthat tells me my instincts are wrong. To do something to show me everything hasn't changed. But he doesn't go to kiss me like he usually does.
"Lucia." He reaches for me. Finally.
But I jerk back so his fingers do not connect with my skin.
Surprised, he stares at me in silence and the longer it drags on, the more certain I am of why he's here tonight. It's not to see me.
Inside, my brain is screaming,this cannot be happening, but I smooth my face into a blank mask and turn to head toward my office. This discussion isn't taking place in front of my employees and patrons.
Not for Atlas's sake, but for mine.
The prickles on the back of my neck let me know that he is following me. I'm careful to maintain enough distance that he cannot touch me though.
Not that he would want to. His need to play besotted boyfriend is over.
Chapter 31
LUCIA
When we reach my office, I hurry to unlock it before Atlas catches up. However, his hand lands against the small of my back, burning me through my dress.
Getting the door open, I leap forward, away from him and rush to get behind my desk, though I don't sit in my chair.
One of his men follow him into my office. The other two remain outside in the hall.
"Shut the door." I'm impressed with how even my voice is when every word coming out of my mouth feels like glass shards shredding my vocal cords.
