Page 12 of Resisting Royal

CHAPTER 7

ROYAL

“Do you have Anderson lined up for next week’s fight?” I asked Oscar, the man in charge of the ring.

“Anderson, Mathews, Jefferson, and Rodriguez, are all headlines,” he responded.

“Good, good. That will bring in a decent penny.” I steeped my fingers as I leaned my elbows onto my desk. “Who is the favorite?”

“Everyone thinks Mathews will come out on top. I’d place my bet on Rodriguez if I was a betting man. He’s lean and fast, a skill that is often overlooked.”

I nodded. “That will be all, thank you, Oscar.”

He gave little acknowledgment of his dismissal before leaving the room. He was only gone seconds before Troy appeared in front of me, sinking into the chair. There was no formality with him, and I was thankful. It was why I spent so much time in his company.

He cleared his throat. “The roof is finished. Appliances picked, and your little bundle of joy is at work.”

“Is Markie on her?” I asked.

“No, Vincent is spending the day keeping an eye on her building. Markie’s wife just had their baby this morning.”

“Already? Girl or boy?” I swore it hadn’t been nearly that long.

“It was early. A girl.” Lucky bastard.

I clicked my intercom. “Veronica? Send Markie a gift basket for a baby girl and a few thousand as a bonus. They had their girl this morning.”

Veronica squealed, knowing that meant a baby shopping spree for her. She loved this shit, and honestly, whatever made the girl happy was a good thing. I knew I wasn’t going to volunteer myself to shop for baby gifts. I couldn’t even imagine myself attempting such a task.

“So, this thing. Do you think it will work?” Troy blurted out.

I looked up from the intercom. “What thing?”

“The Bianca thing.” He crossed his legs and put them on the coffee table.

Oh, that thing. That incredibly infuriating, sexy as hell, thing. “She signed a contract.”

“She did,” he agreed. “That she didn’t read.”

“I gave her a copy. She could have read it; if she didn’t, that’s not my fault.” I stood, walking over to my bar. “Drink?”

“Whiskey.”

“Good boy.” Fuck. The last time I heard that phrase, my wife was pulling a tooth and treating me like a child. I’d be willing to guess she wouldn’t think of me as such when I was through with her.

“How long are you planning to let this thing run?” he asked as I handed him his glass and sipped mine.

“Forever.” The burn of the liquor hit my throat and traveled down in a satisfying sensation.

“Forever!” he choked. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You don’t even know her.”

I leaned against my desk and took another sip, closing my eyes as it slid down. “I’m not getting younger. I don’t have time to date, to serenade women, to make them swoon. I just need someone to make my mother happy, and if I’m lucky, sink my cock into.”

He laughed. “You literally just gave up fucking whoever you want to possibly fuck one woman for the rest of your life. You realize this, right?”

I did. But, I was getting tired of the games. Women come around looking for a quick lay and hope that they would become the next Mrs. Russo. I get it, people want security, the allure of no longer earning their incomes by working as waitresses or call girls is appealing to them. But Bianca, hell, that woman fought me tooth and nail over keeping her job. She wanted nothing from me, and that made me want her that much more.

That peak of a thigh tattoo that those little shorts hinted at, well, that only solidified my want more. It drove me fucking crazy. The fact that every worker in her house at the time had the opportunity to glimpse it nearly drove me mad. I couldn’t help myself; she had to be removed for that situation, and she had to be removed fast because she was fucking mine after all. Her contract said it, and there was no fucking way another man was going to lust over something that I so clearly possessed.

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