Page 81 of Coerced Kiss

She nods and turns her face to the window, seemingly lost in her thoughts.

We arrive a good half an hour early. I planned it like that for two reasons. One, I want her to settle in and get comfortable before the mob arrives, and two, I don’t want to wait too long before I feed her.

A doorman takes my jacket and her wrap to check into the cloak room before he escorts us to the main area.

The dance floor opens after midnight. Until then, the background music is soft enough to allow for conversation. The interior is decked out in black chrome and smoked glass, creating a dark but glitzy ambience with the overhead dim lights. A chandelier with fat purple crystals hangs like a giant bunch of grapes from the ceiling. The bar counter runs along the length of the room. A few high tables and padded bar stools are placed on a raised platform that overlooks the circular floor in the center. The place always smells sweet from the smoke machines and the floor wash.

I intertwine our fingers and escort Anya past the plum loveseats with velvet upholstery and carved golden armrests and up the stairs where paintings line the walls. The life-size portraits depict half-naked women in white wigs, fourteenth century Renaissance bodices, and pantyhose with ribbons on the thighs. Their modern chunky platform heels in hot pink and dayglow yellow form an odd contrast with the historical scenery. The women pose with sultry expressions, their legs spread wide and their feet turned inward, tethering between vulgarity and innocence. I suppose Luigi’s taste in art has always been vulgar.

Anya stares at the prints as we mount the stairs. When we exit on the gallery, I clench my teeth. Our party is already there, seated in the VIP section. A bottle of vodka chills in an ice bucket on the table. The shot glasses that are scattered around indicate they started the celebration early.

Luigi did it on purpose. He told me to come later than everyone, and it can only be for one reason—to put Anya on the spot. Why? Just because he can. Just because he’s a mean motherfucker who doesn’t need a reason to hate someone.

At the sight of Luigi and Giorgio, Anya tenses. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Raphael and Elena are seated on their left. Dante and a blonde are on the end. I don’t bother with the men and women occupying the other tables. They’re minions in the organization. None of them poses a threat.

The only two empty seats are on Giorgio’s right. They’re reserved for us.

The conversation goes quiet when we approach. Plastering a smile on my face, I introduce Anya to the group. Dante stares at her with such unabashed astonishment that his companion’s back goes stiff. The woman glares at Anya without even trying to hide her animosity. For that reason alone, I don’t ask her name, and Dante doesn’t offer.

Elena drags a narrow-eyed gaze over Anya, evaluating the dress and the shoes. Being Rachele’s cousin, her loyalty will be with my ex. No matter how sweet or agreeable Anya is, Elena will be a bitch. I expected it. However, it’s the unconcealed curiosity in Raphael’s eyes that gets my hackles up.

The asshole shakes my hand, but when he extends a hand toward Anya, I fix him with a look that says I’ll motherfucking flatten him to the ground if he touches her while pulling her with a very clear message out of his reach. He blinks as I tuck her against my side and drape a possessive arm around her shoulders. Giving a small, surprised smile, he lowers his arm. Giorgio’s gaze ping-pongs between us as if he’s watching a tennis match.

Luigi waves a hand. “Sit.” His tone is jovial, but I don’t miss the sharp observation that passes through his eyes when he looks at Anya. “You’re not going to stand all night, are you?”

Dante and his date move back their chairs, making space for us to pass. I take the seat on Giorgio’s right. When Anya makes to lower herself in the chair next to mine, I lock my hands around her waist and pull her onto my lap. Her lips part on a soft gasp as her ass lands on my groin.

Nuzzling her neck, I whisper in her ear, “Your place is here,” before shifting her into a comfortable position in my arms.

The people around the table stare. Dante looks on with an open mouth while Elena’s eyes bulge in her head. Luigi pinches his lips together. Let them get their fill. I don’t give a damn. Anya is mine, and I’ll make sure everyone understands that, Anya included.

Giorgio takes a cigarette from the pack on the table. When he shoves it between his lips, I rip the cigarette from his mouth and throw it in the ashtray.

“No smoking around Anya,” I say in a rough voice.

At the hostile tone I never use with him, he raises a brow.

I look him straight in the eye. “We have ladies at the table.”

“My apologies, ladies,” he says, lifting his palms in a mock gesture of surrender. “That was inconsiderate of me.”

Luigi removes a cigar from his inside pocket and rolls it between his fingers. “I was going to light this to celebrate our business success.”

“Maybe outside on the balcony when we toast with brandy.” I look pointedly at the vodka. No one here drinks fucking vodka, which means Raphael ordered it. “Otherwise we’ll have to ask the ladies to entertain themselves downstairs alone.” I give Anya a heated look. “And I have no intention of letting her out of my sight. An unsuspecting fellow may look her way, and that will end in bloodshed.”

Dante utters a boisterous laugh.

My statement is not funny in the least. I mean it. I’ll break arms and legs if I catch anyone as much as glancing in her direction. Forget that. I’ll just start shooting off heads. Dante knows that as well as every other person in the room, but he’s making light of the situation. Saving the day—or in this case, the ambience—is in his nature. As lethal as he can be, he hates conflict unless it’s the physical kind that involves guns or knives.

“You’re right,” Luigi drawls, putting the cigar away. “It’ll be a rude to let the ladies entertain themselves, not to mention what a pity it’ll be to deprive ourselves of the beauty they add to our company.”

The blonde who’s hanging on Dante’s arm bats her eyelashes. If she believes the false compliment Luigi spewed, she’s dumber than an ostrich.

Elena leans forward, asking with a little too much interest, “So, Anya, how did you and Sav meet?”

While Anya tells the story I made up, I signal a waitress and order a bottle of brandy as well as a mocktail with freshly squeezed fruit juice for Anya.

---