Page 6 of Fight Me Little Pearl

The little compulsive liar.

As if I can’t see the way her breath quickens every time I get near her, or how hard she tries to avoid my touch because of the effect it has on her. The pocket-sized spitfire wants me, but she will fight me to her last breath it seems. It’ll take fire and brimstone before she admits to wanting me. But as much as Ihunger for the minx, I will never touch her until she comes to me. The last thing I want is to fuck an unwilling woman. It’s not an exaggeration to say there are thousands of women out there… waiting... dying… for an opportunity to spend a night with me.

I need to let off steam, and I’m going to do that by burying myself in some bitch. I’ll find someone who reminds me of Francesca and that will do me fine. Fuck her for thinking she is too special for me.

I reach the foyer and my erection is still raging hard. I hate how much power the miniature fire-breathing dragon has over me. She will never know, but oh fuck, she has me tied up in a thousand knots.

“Boss.” Dutch appears beside me as I approach the black Audi.

He is my right-hand man and, in a way, the closest person to me. He has the battered face of a boxer. He’s at least a foot shorter than me, but he makes up for it in pure muscle mass and can run through a dozen men in ten minutes.

I’m surrounded by a team of highly trained and highly paid men at all times, but they’re always in the shadows and tasked to appear only in the event of trouble. The only two people allowed to be beside me are Dutch and Vance. As if reading my thoughts, Vance also materializes from the shadows and climbs behind the wheel.

Where Dutch is stout as a bull, Vance is tall and wiry. However, his thin frame is deceptive. Vance is fast, efficient, and can sneak in and out like smoke before you even know he was there. Dutch takes the passenger seat while I get into the backseat.

They don’t ask where I’m headed because, being the two closest to me, they know where I always go to unwind whenever I’m in Paris. A phone goes off, and Vance glances at me cryptically after glancing at the device.

“Franco Barbieri,” he says.

I frown, listening to the phone ring for a moment before putting the buds in my ear. Vance immediately connects the call to my buds. I hear Franco’s old but distinguished voice a second later.

“Don Barone.”

“What is it?” My voice is brusque. The only reason I gave him direct contact to me is because I was marrying his granddaughter, and the coffin dodger is already fucking abusing that privilege. I’m horny as fuck, and it’s all his granddaughter’s fault. There was a time when I would have placed an order for his head to be brought to me on a plate.

“Have you told her?” he asks.

That kills my erection for good, and rage fills my chest. “Do I owe you any explanation?” I snap, restraining myself from using more distasteful words.

“I’m sorry, I’m just?—”

“Francesca ismywife now, and what I tellmywife is none of your business or anyone else’s. I don’t know if you are aware of this, but I don’t take well at all to any kind of meddling from anyone.”

Franco stays quiet, and I know he’s offended. No man takes kindly to being spoken down to, especially one who has tasted and held power before. Franco Barbieri used to rule his domain with an iron fist, very much like I do now, but he made the mistake of handing his throne to his son, Paulo Barbieri, and the bastard ran it to the ground faster than even I expected him to. Taking the control from him was like taking candy from a baby, and I’ll boast about it every chance I get. And Franco fucking Barbieri can kiss my dick since his daughter refuses to.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m just worried about my granddaughter. She is my life.”

Yeah, right! That’s why you sacrificed her to save your wrinkled skin, I nearly say, but manage to bite my tongue at the last minute.

“You worrying about my wife’s safety is a slap to my face, Barbieri. It seems every word that comes out of your mouth pushes you closer to your grave. I’ll do you the favor of ending this call before you find a red dot on your forehead.”

I tap the bud, ending the call.

Fuck that old man.

Have you told her?I remember Barbieri’s question and feel new anger pour into my belly. I don’t owe Francesca any explanation concerning our marriage. Whatever reason she thinks I married her for is enough for us to go on. She doesn’t need to know the truth. I slip my hands into the pocket of my pants and feel the gold bracelet between my fingers. I always carry this piece of jewelry everywhere I go because it reminds me of everything good and pure.

“We’re here, Boss.”

I look out the window, and we’re parked in front of Pavilion Margaux, the most exclusive private brothel and poker house in Paris. The owner, Orlando Carlo, is not only one of the few people whose company I enjoy, but he is also one of my many ears scattered around France. Before I leave the car, I meet the gaze of my men. “Keep constant communication with the men at the hotel.” My voice remains calm despite the angry throbbing of my blood. “If she so much as opens her bedroom door, I want to know.”

They nod.

With a glance at the two burly bouncers at the door who nod respectfully at me, I slip through the unobtrusive entrance. As soon as I enter the inner sanctum of the club, my ears catch the soft, sultry voice of the singer. I recognize the voice immediately. Nina, she has warmed my bed in the past. I head to the bar andperch on a stool as my eyes move to the low stage to find Nina. Her voice is not bad, but there is no doubt that she sucks cock better than she sings.

A goblet of brandy arrives next to me and I feel a presence beside me. I know who it is before I turn to look because no one would dare to come this close to me unannounced, at least, without worrying about losing his hand. I down the fiery liquid in one gulp and hold out my hand for the bottle. Orlando presses it into my hand, and I take a swig straight from the bottle.

“What the fuck are you doing here on your wedding night?” he asks, a wry smile on his face.

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