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Yet, no matter how hard I’d tried, I couldn’t look away.
It was just a sliver of control relinquished. A seemingly innocuous shard.
But it was more than anyone else had ever stolen from me in eight years—enough for her presence to distract me and the memory of the wet spot on her panties to haunt my thoughts—and I wanted my control back.
Maybe I was being punished for living my life as a miserable jerk, avoiding my duty to my family as often as I could and treating everyone like they were personally to blame for Elsa’s greed.
Maybe this was the universe’s way of punishing me—throwing Ariana De Luca into my life and making it so that I couldn’t look away.
And I couldn’t.
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.
The curve of her neck as she threw her head back and laughed at something Tessie said had my mouth watering.
I wanted to sink my teeth in her neck, draw blood, and revel at the sight of the vibrant red dripping down her otherwise untarnished skin.
I wanted to steal back the sliver of control she’d taken from me—and then another sliver, just because I could. Her blood would smell like revenge and taste like the filthy things I wanted to do to her.
I could almost taste it now.
I was a sick fuck, and I needed to look away before I convinced myself that I could blur the lines with my future employee, never mind the fact the lines had already been blurred when she’d taken unconscious steps closer to me and I came in front of her.
I tore my eyes away from her, promising myself that I wouldn’t entertain my X-rated thoughts about her, let alone in the presence of my family.
Asher pulled a blueprint to the top of the pile. “How about we do it at Valentino’s?”
I leaned back in my chair, counting down from ten as I eyed the ceiling.
Ten.
Must not punch Asher.
Nine.
Must not punch Asher.
Eight.
Must not punch Ash—
Gio, ever the sweetheart, was less tactful in hiding his irritation at Asher.
He groaned, pounded a fist on the table, and barked, “Christ, Asher. Valentino’s?”
The little shit was amused.
Probably had his signature pretty boy, I’m-smarter-than-you-and-I-know-it smirk on his face, too.
“What’s wrong with Valentino’s?” Asher drawled out, taking his sweet-ass time to form the question.
Nothing was wrong with Valentino’s.
What was wrong was that it was Asher’s ninth wedding venue choice of the day, and we had already planned security for the first eight choices.
Granted, as soon as Asher suggested La Chiesa di San Valentino, I knew it was the best fit.
The Romano connection to the church dated back hundreds of years to the mid-1800s. When the prohibition era came, my great grandfather had tunnels built all over New York City and into the land past the boroughs.
