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What gives him the right to sayyesbefore she does?
What gives him the right to give Amelia away like she’s his property?
She isn’t his property.
She’smydamn property.
My fucking woman.
Now I stare directly into the sun, wondering if I should blind myself so I never have to bear witness to another man claiming a woman my heart and cock have both claimed as their own. Not that the boss is going to invite me to the wedding, but that will be a dark and dangerous day regardless.
It’ll take every ounce of restraint to not find a spot within range of my modified M-13 sniper rifle. I’d wait for the wedding vows to be done before putting a bullet in Ralph Romero’s head, streaking Amelia’s virgin-white wedding gown red with the stain of my possessive rage. She’d be a widow three seconds after becoming a bride. Still untouched and perfect for me, but too tainted for any other Mafia Family to consider another arranged marriage.
Not that any Mafia Family would risk another precious prince’s life with an unknown assassin on the prowl.
A predator protecting his possession.
A beast protecting his beauty.
A chuckle rumbles deep in my throat as I put my sunglasses on and march down the marble front steps to where my black Ford F-150 truck is parked in the service lot off to the mansion’s east side. Killing Amelia’s husband on the wedding-day is a nice fantasy, that dark middle-ground between sex and violence where men like me live most of the time. But it’s just a fantasy. I’m not crazy enough to assassinate a Mafia prince without it being sanctioned by the Consortium of Families. That pretty much getsallthe Families to send their soldiers and enforcers after your dumb ass. And I sure as hell don’t have a death wish.
Though the image of Amelia being married within weeks sure as hell makes me want to die.
I stride down the path along the side of the mansion leading to the service lot. Across the manicured garden are the tennis courts. I rub my jaw as my mind snaps back to what Amelia had said about watching tennis, about the U.S Open in New York.
And about not getting out much.
A wild idea hits me and I stop like I’ve been shot. Furiously rubbing my jaw I turn and stride back to the front steps, bound up them like a wolf, storming past the sentries at the front door. They’re surprised, but they have standing instructions to let me pass during business hours on the thirteenth of every month, so they step aside before I steamroll them with my eagerness to do what will probably end up being a big disappointment but is worth a shot and is safe enough that it wouldn’t arouse any suspicion.
Though maybe it will arouse something else.
I get to the main atrium, walk past the marble fountain with a naked Italian dude spouting water from his tiny marble dick.
My dick, however, is thicker than the marble pillars lining the way to Anthony Volini’s office. The heavy oakwood doors are closed but I knock anyway, knowing that I get special privileges with the boss on account of my direct relationship with the man.
Carlo Giani pokes his head out, quizzical frown on his well-lined face. The guy is rightfully wary of me—after all, part of the reason I’m here is to make sure the boss’sconsiglieridoesn’t get too big for his boots.
Of course, Carlo Giani is loyal to the core. There’s no scenario other than dementia where Anthony Volini asks me to take Carlo out. Still, the boss is a crafty strategist. He understands incentives, knows that the best way to keep a man honest is to remove all temptation to be dishonest.
“Let him in,” calls Anthony Volini from the deep reaches of the cavernous office when Carlo tells him it’s me. “What is it, Zedd? You forget something?”
I shake my head, enter his office, do my best not to glance at his daughter’s ass as she stands in front of her father’s walnut desk with her back to me. I sense her body tense up at the sound of my voice, but she doesn’t turn.
“U.S. Open Tennis starts this weekend,” I say casually, my gaze firmly on Anthony Volini even though all my attention is on his daughter, my every sense heightened to pick up any sign that she understands what I’mreallyasking with the question I’m about to pose her father. “You offer VIP passes to me every damn year. I always say no. Thought maybe I’d flip the script this year if the offer still stands. I'll take a couple of passes if you've still got them.”
Anthony Volini blinks, raises a bushy eyebrow, then cracks a grin. The old man likes me. I think he’s also a bit scared of me. Good combination.
“Acoupleof passes?” The boss slides open a desk drawer and pulls out a shiny file-folder, tosses it on the desk, flips it open and holds up two laminated passes for the Flushing Meadows Tennis Center in Queens, New York. “Now that’sreallyflipping the script, Zedd. The lone wolf has a woman now?”
Now Amelia stiffens in that imperceptible way nobody but me would notice. She’d asked me that obviously leading question about a wife or girlfriend.
I avoided the question.
After all, it would be a bit awkward to declare that in my mind Amelia Volini is my wife, my girlfriend, my possession, my property.
I shrug as I take the passes from the boss, leaning past Amelia as I do it. The scent of her floral body-spray rises up to me, but through it I swear I pick up the scent of her pussy, the musk of her sex, pheromones of her femininity.
It’s my perverted imagination, of course, but when you spend so much time alone the obsessions become more vivid than reality. For one wild moment my mind almost breaks, that demon inside urging me to just take her now, fucking snatch her like the prize she is, sling her over my shoulder and barrel my way out of the room like a madman.
