Page 7 of King of the Cage

“If you want to make sure my balls are both there, I’ll let you play with them,” Enrico chuckled. “I’ll rub them all over you.”

An involuntary laugh left me at that disgusting image.

“You are really missing the point here.” I angled myself away from Sol. I didn’t want her to see how awful her crush was being. I nodded meaningfully toward her. “You might want to take your compliments where they’re wanted.”

He scoffed and pulled me closer. “My compliments are for you. You’re the only trophy worth bagging here tonight, Giada.”

Asshole.My patience snapped. If this guy was going to offend Sol, I was going to put him on his knees in front of his entire family.

Don’t start a war at the wedding. Elio’s earlier warning echoed in my head. Sure, it was totally something I’d do, but should I? I caught sight of Sol’s anxious face, watching us from across the room as she talked. I had to do something. Enrico had made it more than obvious who his target was, and it wasn’t her.

I looked around frantically for an excuse not to do what I really wanted. Something I could do instead of breaking my martini glass over Enrico’s head and stabbing the stem through his eyeball.

A pair of dark-green eyes met mine from across the room.

The Irishman.

Brandon O’Connor, a young Irish Mafia heir, sitting among his men and staring right at me.

The O’Connor family wasn’t known for their suits or manicures, and the youngest of the bunch, Brandon, acted like he’d never hung up an item of clothing in his life. Even tonight, dressed in a suit, he looked disreputable. With tattoos liberally decorating the backs of his hands and trailing up his thick, veined forearms, and even up his neck… he seemed exactly like the kind of trouble that could spice up this party. He watched me intently, all six-five of his impressively broad frame bent forward, elbows braced on his knees. His long, dirty-blond hair was pulled back, giving him a vicious and regal air, like a Celtic warrior king from days of old. A man built to plunder and pillage and lay fucking waste to all who challenged him.

The De Sanctis family was having trouble with the Irish lately, and Brandon O’Connor was enemy number one on my brother’s shit list. Elio was meticulous and disciplined. He expected everyone to live like he did, with monk-like dedication to his cause. Bran O’Connor had the aura of a man who had never met a rule he didn’t want to break. It was little wonder that Elio couldn’t stand him.

That made him perfect for my purposes.

“Come on, Giada. The De Sanctis praying mantis. Eat me tonight.” Enrico was getting on my last fucking nerve.

The praying mantis.

It was a title I’d carried for years. One I’d cultivated, even. Apparently, if a woman knew what she liked in bed and wasn’t afraid to ask for it, it made her a man-eater, a man-killing bug. Or if you had a type — handsome, quiet, and happy to follow my lead — it got you the reputation of being a domineering bitch between the sheets. Maybe I was. I certainly liked to be in charge. Everything felt safer that way. I decided when, where, and who. I controlled how it happened, when it started and ended. I didn’t negotiate.

A man-eating mantis wasn’t a victim. It wasn’t possible, and so that’s what I’d become.

Enrico touched my cheek. “Or am I too much man for you to eat, baby? I don’t mind if you choke on me. I’d like it.”

“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Rico, but the man-eater has already chosen her target tonight, and it’s not you,” I murmured with lethal sweetness. There was still a chance to get Rico to back off before Sol returned, but clearly, he wasn’t good enough for her anyway.

I had to put him out of commission tonight, before my best friend made a huge mistake.

I turned on my heel, striding across the busy ballroom toward the bar and the gang of Irishmen sitting around a table, ready to start a fight at a moment’s notice.

I wasted no time on the underlings. It was obvious who the boss was in the group. One guy whistled when I stalked through them. There were soft murmurs of appreciation, but not a single one raised a hand to touch me as I squeezed through the tight-knit group until I reached him.

Bran. The youngest son of the Irish Mafia in New York.

The Lost Boy of Hell’s Kitchen.

My brother’s enemy.

He had quite the reputation. I made it my business to know the players in the scene, and Brandon was infamous. Reckless and untamable, he’d been to jail twice by the age of thirty-one was close friends with the Russians, and an excellent fighter. He was fiercely protective of his family, especially his younger sister, Quinn O’Connor, who had headed home from the party hours ago.

Silence fell around the table.

“Can we help you with something, sweetheart?” a brawny Irish voice asked, one of Bran’s men.

“You can’t. He can, if he’s up for the challenge,” I said, never looking away from Bran’s emerald eyes.

A smirk stole across his full lips.

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