Page 58 of Remy

I swear to hell she does unnatural things to me. And it’s not just the unruly reaction from my dick.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ollie,” I yell through the door. “I’ll grant you some space. For now. But my lenience won’t last.”

There’s no reply. Not even another slammed door or hissed rebuttal. The house falls deathly quiet.

It’s too fucking cold for this shit.

I swing around to face the yard with a growl.

This never should’ve fucking happened. Who the hell stays at work overnight? Especially when their place of business houses dead goddamn bodies?

My cell vibrates in my pocket, inspiring another growl.

I drag my feet from Ollie’s porch like the unintentionally whipped psycho I am and dump her shit in my trunk before sinking into the driver’s seat.

It’s no surprise the message is from my brother.

Salvo

Where are you?

Me

I’m taking the weekend off. Stop riding my ass.

The three little dots of his impending reply pop up, then disappear.

I should call him. Should tell him I’m not a little bitch who needs to check in, but I’m starting to itch for a fight, and having it out with the unhinged dictator won’t help this situation when lack of sleep has my wits at an all-time low.

Instead, I stare at Ollie’s house, cursing that night at the godforsaken dive bar.

Three of us had watched her walk inside—me, Russo, and Valenti—all of us spaced throughout the building to keep watch on my brother’s meeting in the back booth.

I’d recognized her instantly thanks to the background check Salvo had arranged on the Pelosi family. Had known a complication was about to potentially fuck with the diabolical partnership my brother had been exceptionally proud of nurturing to fruition.

I’d wondered if Carlo had been stupid enough to tell his daughter about the meeting. If she’d arrived in a vain attempt to stop the illegal negotiation.

The only thing I’d known for sure was that the photos in the background file hadn’t done her justice.

She was beautiful, her dark hair braided in some sort of whimsical artistry that only increased the appeal of her wide, innocent eyes and plush, glossy lips.

Both my men had stood to take action. All it took was a glared warning to seat them back in place.

I wanted to be the one to approach her. To shut down whatever plan she had to derail our success. So I placed myself in her path, waited for her to slam into me, then lost all commonsense when those hazel eyes met mine.

All I’d needed to do was figure out her motive and distract her.

I’d done both.

But touching her? That had been a mistake. I can’t forget the softness of her skin. The goddamn moisture between her thighs.

Ollie Pelosi is a clueless temptation—one that’s pure as snow, with her fucking hymen still intact.

I glare at her house, waiting for her to turn on a light and give me insight into her activities.

She needs to eat. To shower. To keep occupied.

Yet there’s no movement. No glow from behind the curtains.

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