Page 28 of Assassin's Obsession

"Don Messino made it clear he considered me no family of his over twenty years ago." He was ashamed of the child he considered defective, telling my mother it was probably the IVF that made me the way I was.

Not a stellar human being, or particularly intelligent.

"I don't have time to get into old history right now," Perla dismisses. "We'll be in New York in two weeks. I expect you to make time to see me and meet with your stepfather."

"Send me your schedule." I make no promises, because she is not a priority for me.

Even if finding out what her father is planning is.

Frankly, I have more reliable spies in Sicily already.

CANDI

Uncertainty adds fizz to the bubbles of anticipation rising inside me. Buoyed up by it and performing a perfect set, I walk straight into the VIP area.

Except for Angelo, the men who sit here believe they can touch the dancers however they want. It's an unspoken rule, but the dancers who go into the VIP area are open to doing special favors in the backroom, or right there at the table.

I'm not, but Angelo is there and the past months have proven he's not coming out. If I want to see him, I have to go in.

Why my craving for him is so unmanageable tonight of all nights, I don't know and honestly don't care. I just want a glimpse. Then I'll leave.

That's what I tell myself, but I'm not sure I believe it.

Unafraid, I maneuver through the darkness covered in the certainty that Angelo won't allow anyone to touch me unless I give them permission.

Would he let a man I gave the go ahead to touch me? The fantasy of him being so protective he wouldn't even allow that sends inappropriate arousal zinging along my nerve ending.

That thought should definitely not turn me on.

But it does. A lot.

Despite my certainty of the mafioso's protection, I weave between the tables, using my tried and true techniques to avoid being touched.

Only, they aren't necessary. None of the men sitting at these tables even leer at me as I walk by.

Because of Angelo. I'm sure of it.

When I see him, at first my heart thunders in my chest. His face is painted like a death skull. The blacklight giving the impression that the skull is floating in the air above the table, its empty eye sockets watching me approach.

I'm only a couple of feet away when I can make out a hooded cowl and muscular body encased in unrelenting black. Angelo is eerily still as I approach his table.

I could doubt my certainty that it's him, but I don't. I can't see his eyes, but I can feel them on me. Just like I always do.

As I get closer to the table, the panic I should have been feeling all along hits me out of nowhere.

Do I really want to risk destroying the status quo? If I disgust him, he might stop protecting me. Do I want to take a chance of that happening? What if he rejects me completely and I'm left standing like a fool amidst men who will be eager to take what he doesn't want?

The questions swirl in my head as I stop in front of him, my body rooted to the spot. None of my fears can overcome this uncontrollable fascination.

My heart is beating so hard, it hurts. I'm supposed to be confident, a dancer who knows her place. I should cock my hip and ask if he wants anything, letting my fingertip play along my bottom lip.

But I can't get a single sound past the golf ball lodged in my throat.

It's been longer than six months since Angelo skewered a man's hand for me and over three months since he dealt with Ronnie.

What if the sensation of him watching me all that time is a figment of my imagination? And if it's not, there's a reason he's never come out of the shadows to talk to me.

Right?

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