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I’m too weak to defend myself. Or her. The thought of this girl -woman- getting hurt or killed because of who I am bothers me more than it should. Which is ridiculous. I know nothing about her. Yet…she saved my life, so I feel I owe her.
“What’s your name?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”
“Do you prefer I call you blondie?”
“Knew I should have listened to Cara,” she mutters to herself. “Thalia.”
Thaliais an unusual name, but I like it. It suits her quirky style.
“Aren’t you going to ask who I am?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything else.
“I already know. I went through your pockets last night,Salvatore.”
From the way her lip curls when she says my name, I can tell she knows who my family is. Well, good. Saves me fromhaving to explain or threaten her if she does anything to make this clusterfuck worse.
“Why are you so calm?”
She shrugs. “Last night isn’t the worst thing to have happened to me this week.”
What the fuck? “Tell me what was worse??”
“Emilio flashing me his micropeen. Honestly, I’m scarred for life now.” She shudders with distaste. “No woman needs to see that. It gives maggots a bad name.”
I kinda want to laugh, but also, I’m fucking raging on her behalf. This asshole is a dead man. I will tear him limb from limb once I recover. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s pricks who abuse women.
“Who the fuck is Emilio?” I snap.
She looks at me, surprised at the venom in my voice. “The manager from the restaurant last night. Please tell me you shot his peen off. That would make my day.”
“Do you hate all dicks, or just that one?” I ask, suddenly very keen to know.
She twirls a strand of blond hair around her finger and chews her lip, a faint smirk on her face. “Just that one. It was a particularly nasty specimen.”
“Good to know.” The words tumble from my mouth without me thinking it through. I realize that when her smirk widens into a full-on grin. I’ve said too much. She now knows I’m interested in whethershe’sinterested inme. Which is ridiculous.
I don’t chase women. I don’tneedto chase women; they come to me. Always. This woman has bewitched me. By rights, I should be crawling out of her shitty apartment and dragging my sorry carcass back to my penthouse, where I can recover in peace and put a plan in place to deal with O’Connor once and for all.
Instead, here I am, flirting with the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met. Who also saved my sorry ass. I have a feeling my life has somehow shifted on an invisible axis overnight, and nothing will ever be the same again.
Chapter Six
Thalia
Salvatore makes my apartment seem small. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it is small. Barely 500 square feet, if you include the hallway between me and Mrs. Dryzmalski. Everything about Salvatore is overwhelming. Even injured he sucks all the energy out of the room and I feel like a tiny fragment of space debris hurtling toward an enormous black hole. I don’t think he has any idea how intimidating he is.
I can’t stop staring at him. He’s quite possibly the most beautiful man I’ve ever met. He’s in a lot of pain, I can tell from the gray tinge to his skin, but he’s hiding it well. I guess in his line of work, painful injuries are an occupational hazard. Part of me wants to ask what it’s like being a mobster, but the sensible me keeps her mouth shut. The less I know about anything, the better.
It’s early afternoon and he’s dozing on my sofa. I forced him to take some Motrin after he’d eaten a slice of toast and not long after, he fell asleep. The wound on his arm isn’t bleeding anymore, but it really needs checking by a qualified doctor.
If I had my phone, I’d call Cara and ask her advice, but it’s in a locker at the restaurant. Which is now a crime scene, according to the news reports I watched earlier. Ten people died, the reporter said; three of whom were customers. They didn’t elaborate on the identities of the other seven victims, but since the incident was described as being part of a gang-related ‘turf war’, it’s not hard to draw conclusions.
Salvatore stirs and I drop my book, which I’ve read precisely one page of, and focus on him.
“Where’s the bathroom?” he asks after he sits up, his abs flexing deliciously.
I point to the door behind me, ignoring the little sparks of heat detonating in my ovaries. “Through the bedroom, on the left. Need a hand?” I’m worried he might fall, given how weak he was earlier, but he smiles. It’s a devastating smile. The kind of smile that leads innocent young virgins to ruin.
