Page 100 of Sinister Intentions

Something told me Vince would be equally comfortable and at home in a mountain cabin in the wilderness as he was here.

I rounded a plant and froze. Vince was slumped over his desk, his back rising and falling with each quiet breath.

My heart stuttered at the sight of him. I crept closer, biting my lip to hold my breath.

The beam of light from the small desk lamp illuminated the fine lines on Vince’s face. He looked almost soft in sleep, the harsh lines on his face relaxed for once. My fingers twitched with the urge to brush away the unruly strands of hair from his forehead.

His vulnerability tugged at something deep within me.

Who was the real Vincenzo Salvini?

I took another step and leaned closer as I tried to reconcile this peaceful vision with the ruthless man I knew he was. But as I leaned over his desk, something else caught my eye.

I froze and stared down at the sheet of paper beneath Vince’s cheek.

My face and my eyes were staring back at me.

The attention to detail was astonishing; it was as if I was staring at a black-and-white photo of myself.

The rest of the pencil drawing was partially hidden beneath his face, but it didn’t take much fantasy to know it was my nude body in the style of those famous old Roman statues.

Holy shit. Even my body was spot-on. He’d captured my very essence on paper.

Who knew that beneath the hardened exterior of a Mafia boss there existed such raw artistic talent?

I carefully grabbed the edge of the paper and slowly pulled. I needed to see the whole thing. Needed to see how he saw me.

I’d barely moved it when his hand darted out and clamped around my wrist.

I froze, my heartbeat pounding as his eyes snapped open. “What are you doing?”

“Me?” I arched a brow, acutely aware of his grip on my arm. “What have you done?”

He straightened with a scowl. “What now? Are you cranky because you’re hung over?”

I narrowed my eyes and glared at him, then shook my head. “I should’ve slit your throat when I had the chance,” I said.

A smile tugged at his lips, and he yanked me closer.

I squeaked in protest and glared at him.

“Careful, or I might get the wrong idea,” he whispered.

I narrowed my brows. “And what idea would that be?”

“That you’re as obsessed with me as I am with you,” he said.

I stared at him. Speechless.

He raised a single brow and then winked at me.

And I almost choked on my tongue. Was Vince Salvini really openly flirting with me?

For a hot minute, I imagined how it would feel if he pulled me onto his lap, how his hands would feel against my skin. I shuddered.

Which was met by his sharp hiss followed by a growl. “What was that thought?”

Damn. Mind out of the gutter. I needed a change of topic. Fast. I didn’t answer his question and avoided looking at him. Instead, I let my gaze roam around the room, then looked back at the drawing.

---