Page 10 of His Ruthless Claim

The warehouse door crashes open, the metal groaning in protest. My father walks in, his face a mask of fury. His eyes are a little too red, and I know he's drunk. I only wonder how he found me.

I suppress a groan. I guess I have a list of people to kill tomorrow.

"What the fuck is this?" He gestures wildly between Enzo and me. "Going behind my back? Making deals?"

I don't move, one hand pressed to the table. To his credit, Enzo doesn't seem affected by my father either, but I don't break eye contact with my father.

"You weak piece of shit." Violence flashes in his eyes, and I wonder what lie he'll tell himself when he wakes in the morning. He hasn't actually laid hands on me in years. I always knock him unconscious and he thinks it's the alcohol - or so he says. "Think you can run things better than me? That what your mother would've wanted?"

My expression doesn't change. He always brings her up when he's like this.

He brings out a gun, flicking off the safety. Only, he doesn't point it at Enzo. No, he points it at me. I don't flinch. Don't blink. Don't even tense.

"For fuck's sake, react!" He slams his fists on the table. "Show something, anything! You're not human, you know that? Just like when she died - sitting there, watching, doing nothing-"

I cut him off with a look. The same empty stare that makes others wonder what's wrong with me. He stumbles back a step.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Enzo's expression - disgust warring with pity as he watches Chicago's most feared crime boss reduced to this. The calculation in his gaze tells me everything. No one wants to follow a drunk who can't control himself.

"We're done here." My voice remains steady, controlled. "The meeting was concluded before this interruption."

My father spits on the ground. "Concluded? You don't conclude shit without my say-"

"Actually," I stand smoothly, straightening my suit jacket, "I do. Enzo knows where to reach me when he's made his decision."

I walk past my father without acknowledging him further. His rage-filled shouts echo behind me, but I don't rush my steps. Control is everything in this world. And everyone in this room just witnessed who really has it.

I leave my father behind as I head into the city. I should be heading to my office where files are waiting for me. I have so many more steps of my plans to take care of. But instead, I'm driving toward the boutique - to check up on the new crew I have my guys looking into. That's the only reason.

Yet even I don't believe the lie as I park. The boutique sits in that sweet spot between territories - close enough to both families to matter, far enough from either to maintain independence. Like Skye herself.

The bell chimes softly as I enter. My eyes zero in on her, stunned to see her this close. Photos do not do her justice.

She is helping another customer, but I catch the slight stiffening of her shoulders. She knows I'm here - or at least that I'm dangerous enough to note. Interesting.

I browse casually, noting security camera placement, the layout, potential exits - habits ingrained since childhood. But my attention keeps drifting to her movements, the confident way she handles demanding clients, how her dress highlights curves that would make lesser men lose focus.

"Can I help you find something?" Her voice carries that perfect blend of professional courtesy and underlying steel. She must know at least who I am in some manner.

"Just exploring new territory." I meet her gaze directly, watching for any sign of fear. There isn't any. Instead, she's almost sizing me up, her eyes looking along my body.

"Of…fashion?" She cocks her eyebrow, entirely unbelieving. Damn, she is even more beautiful in person. And with the way her eyes keep darting down, she has some attraction to me.

"Of the city." I shift closer, out of instinct, and she doesn't move back. "I find this area... intriguing."

"The boutique isn't for sale." Sharp, direct. No artifice.

"Not everything is about acquisition." My fingers trace the watch face again. "Sometimes it's about... personal interest."

Something flashes in those amber eyes - recognition of the game we're playing, perhaps. Or appreciation for the predator in her midst. Either way, it sends an unfamiliar thrill through my carefully maintained control.

I shouldn't be here. This serves no tactical purpose. Yet I find myself wanting to stay, to unravel the mystery behind her calculated confidence. For the first time since watching my mother die, I'm acting on desire rather than strategy.

It should terrify me. Instead, I feel something dangerously close to anticipation.

6

SKYE

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