Page 17 of Sinister Intentions

I slowly inhaled, then controlled my exhale. This asshole was getting on my nerves, which usually made me calmer and even more calculated.

I took a step closer. “I consider everything I can see, hear, smell, and breathe my space. So you better make sure I don’t see you, or even hear anything about you in the future.”

He looked over my shoulder for a second, then nodded, saluted, opened the door, got into his car, and started the engine. Then he rolled down the window. “You forgot the ‘breathing the same air’ part.” He winked. “See you soon, Vincenzo Salvini.”

I was suddenly sure his plan was to throw me off. The question was why and off what?

Well, two could play the game. I narrowed my eyes. “Let’s not. Next time, I won’t be so civilized.”

He chuckled, then shook his head. “Who would’ve thought you were a hothead?” he murmured while driving away.

Apparently, he bought the bullshit I fed him.

I stared after him. He was not wrong.

We might be American, but we Salvinis were far closer to our Italian roots than your usual Italian-American family. And Italian blood ran a lot hotter than any other.

Though, if he thought that just because I showed him my teeth meant I was riled up, he was plain wrong.

Psychological warfare was my area of expertise, and he was sorely mistaken if he thought he could faze me. I turned and walked back to the helicopter while making a phone call. “Get me everything on Ivan Zotov,” I barked at Michele, then ended the call.

If Ivan Zotov wanted to play, he wouldn’t know what hit him.

Because I wasn’t one to waste time playing games.

Not with Jemma Donnelly and not with Ivan Zotov.

I was the one who set up the board and made the rules. And if necessary, blew it all up and started anew.

For as often and as long as it took to win.

CHAPTER SIX

“Come on. Let’s spend the weekend together. Do some shopping, go dancing?” Fee nudged me when I didn’t immediately react to her question about visiting her in New York City.

Not that her suggestion didn’t sound fun since I would get out of this house for a while. But the prospect of being in the same city as Vince Salvini made my stomach churn with anxiety.

“We’ll go back to Italy on Thursday. You could come with us,” she continued.

My stomach tightened, and I shook my head. Hell no—that was my gut instinct every time I even thought about going back to Italy. “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Going to New York for the weekend sounds fun, but?—”

“Don’t let Vince Salvini dictate your moves.”

I glared at her. Was she a mind reader now? But as much as I hated to admit it, she had a point. Letting Vince influence my decisions would be letting him win. And I refused to hand himthat kind of power over me. “Salvini doesn’t dictate anything. All I wanted to say was that I’m not ready for Italy.”

Fee sat up, her brow furrowed. “You’re not ready for Italy? Why?” She stared at me, then her eyes widened. “You can’t let what happened there intimidate you into hiding away forever.”

I opened my mouth to protest. I’d been to Italy for Sophie’s wedding. I thought I was okay, but honestly, even hearing the language spoken had kept me on edge, and I hadn’t had a single good night of sleep while I’d been there. “It’s not?—”

Fee held up a hand to stop me. “I’m not saying you have to live there or anything. Just…don’t let the bullshit that happened to us scare you off from living your life, you know?”

I worried my lip, considering her words. But before I could respond, Alex’s voice drifted in from the hallway. “Hey, Princess, you ready to go?”

Fee sighed and rolled off the bed. “I gotta run. Just think about it, okay? And let’s definitely do NYC this weekend. I need new shoes.” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and headed for the door.

“I will,” I promised. I already knew I wouldn’t go to Italy with her. But I could face Vince for one weekend.

So what if the memory of him crowding me against that bookshelf made my heart stutter? I’d been so flustered in that moment that my carefully constructed walls had crumbled under the intensity of his piercing gaze.

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