Page 72 of A Game So Reckless

Two can play at that game. Turns out I don’t have any more patience for pleasantries, either.

I suddenly need to know, with a ferocity that makes my dick twitch and my head pound, if he’s going to agree to this shit or not.

If he does, I’ll have a new fiancée within the hour.

If he doesn’t…

I’ll just have to find another way. Fuck the consequences and just take her by force, I guess. Kidnapping a bride was good enough for his precious Elio, after all.

“I know the Russians are moving in on you,” I say, dropping the smile. “I know about the dealings they had with Dario Fabbri, the man you intended for Valentina to marry. I know they’re trying to grow and consolidate power right now.”

Gotta hand it to old Vinny. He doesn’t bat an eye. No sweat on his brow. Nothing to give his thoughts away.

He doesn’t reply. He merely lets tense quiet fall between us. I don’t mind it, but I could see how another man might be shitting his pants with that kind of silence accompanying that sort of stare.

Eventually, he leans back in his chair, his eyes still drilling into me. The leather squeaks.

“You’re not scared of any fucking Russians,” he finally says. “And you’ve never been one for alliances. You’re a loose cannon, Gowan. A mad dog in the streets somebody should have muzzled by now. So tell me, right now, why you want this alliance. Or, at the very least, tell me exactly how you plan to fuck me up the ass with this deal.”

“I never said I want the alliance,” I tell him flatly. “But you’re going to need it, and soon. Because from what I hear, it’s not just Russians stirring up shit for you, but bikers in Québec as well.”

He inhales sharply. He’s insulted by my words.

But he knows they’re right.

“So you’re willing to throw your support behind me? Let your soldiers bleed for me if it comes down to it? For an alliance you don’t even care about?” he asks sharply. “Why? Out of the goodness of your goddamn heart? Because we all know that you don’t fucking have one.” He leans forward and plants his palms on the desk. “Tell me what it is you really want.”

I pause, wondering if I should offer more terms first. Or if I should try to corner him just a little more tightly than I already have.

But my patience is thinning. Like a ribbon scraped one too many times by a knife. Threads are exposed. And they are snapping.

I need to know if Valentina is going to be my wife with his blessing, or at least his grudging approval.

Or if I’m going to have to spill some fucking blood and steal her.

“There’s only one thing I want from you,” I tell him.

He stills, waiting for the impact.

One little word. A single name.

It feels like a prayer.

And a fucking curse.

“Valentina.”

For the first time in our conversation, surprise registers on his face. His expression goes slack for a moment, like I’ve sucker-punched the sense right out of him.

Actually, I think Vincenzo Titone would react more quickly to a sucker punch than he had to this. He stares at me, his breathing suddenly heavier in the quiet room.

“Valentina,” he finally repeats. There’s a red flush creeping up his neck. I wonder if he’s picturing jumping across the table to strangle me. I feel Rowan’s body bristle at my side, ready for action.

“Yes.” I sound more calm than I am. My blood is burning through me. My skin feels too tight. I want to get up. Pace the room. Punch someone. But I need to project emotionless authority right now. Men like Valentina’s father can smell desperation on a man as surely as they can smell roses or coffee or pussy.

“You want her, how?” Vinny asks, and there’s a bullet of warning in the words. “Everyone knows you’re one sadistic fuck. I’m not handing my daughter over to be tortured or killed by you just so I can get a few Irish with guns on my side.”

“Tortured and killed? Who said anything about that?” I ask him. “I have no interest in making myself a widower.”

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