Page 44 of Sinister Intentions

“And?” he said.

“I thought you’d at least defend yourself.”

He chuckled. “I never defend myself.”

I sighed. And that was Vince Salvini in a nutshell.

I hung my head while Vince continued to rinse my backside all the way from my head to my toes with hot water.

“Also, about the staring part,” he suddenly whispered into my ear, standing much closer than I’d anticipated.

I suppressed a shiver—not because I was cold—but because of him. “What? You’re not staring since you’re a gentleman?” My retort was dripping with sarcasm, but I was suddenly too tired for anything else.

Vince turned off the shower, and the sudden silence was deafening. “I’m a lot of things, Punk,” he whispered, “but gentleman ain’t one of them.”

My sharp inhale was loud in the sudden silence. What now? For some reason, my mind was a jumbled mess. Far too much of a mess to continue to spar with Vince Salvini.

And what the hell was happening anyway? Why did he do what he did? Why was he this nice to me now? And why was my body reacting the way it did? Was it the aftermath of my panic attack?Or was it the way he made me feel safe and weak at the same time? Why did I feel like putty in his hands?

He stepped out first, grabbed another plush towel, and wrapped it around my shivering form.

Why was I shivering again?

And why was he so surprisingly gentle?

He pulled me out of the shower and back into the middle of the room while I desperately held onto the towel.

Our eyes met for the briefest of moments, and I searched his inscrutable gaze for any hint of what he might be thinking, any clue as to his motivations. But his expression remained unreadable, a mask of stoic control.

Vince stepped behind me and pulled at the towel.

“Hey,” I said.

He growled and pulled harder until I let go.

He efficiently dried me off, then replaced the damp towel with a fresh, dry one. His movements were methodical, almost clinical, yet there was an undeniable intimacy in the way he treated me.

Somehow it made me feel both vulnerable and strangely reassured by his no-nonsense approach.

Without a word, he took my hand and led me out of the bathroom, out of his bedroom, across the hallway, and into what appeared to be another bedroom. Just how big was this apartment of his? This room was just as sleek and modern as the other bedroom, with minimal furnishings but a different color palette of soft blushes and whites.

Vince gestured toward an open doorway. “Can you get dressed by yourself?” His voice was low and gravelly, yet there was a softness to it that I hadn’t expected.

I nodded, not trusting my voice in that moment, and looked toward the doorway, which I assumed led to a walk-in closet.

“Pick anything you like,” he said, and I could feel his gaze lingering on me for a few seconds longer than necessary.

As he turned to leave, I found myself inexplicably holding my breath, my eyes fixed on the broad expanse of his back. Just before he stepped out into the hallway, he paused and glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes meeting mine once more. In that brief moment, I thought I glimpsed something deeper—a flicker of emotion that I couldn’t quite place. Vulnerability, protectiveness, or was it regret?

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the moment passed, and he was gone, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

I exhaled slowly, my heart slowly pounding in my chest as I tried to make sense of the strange intimacy that had just transpired between us.

Vince Salvini, the ruthless head of a powerful crime family, had just tended to me with a surprising gentleness that seemed at odds with everything I knew about him.

What a confusing man.

As I made my way toward the closet, my mind whirled with questions. Who was the real Vince Salvini? The cold, calculating criminal who’d kidnapped me or the man who had just shown me a glimpse of tenderness and kindness?

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