Page 12 of His Ruthless Claim

Wow, this guy is fucking with my head.

Slipping behind the safety of the counter, the silk tissue paper whispers as I wrap each suit with practiced precision. Most clients this wealthy have their purchases delivered, but he insists on taking them now. His stare burns into my hands as I work, tracking every fold and crease like he's memorizing my movements.

"Would you like these in separate bags?" I keep my voice professional despite the electricity crackling through my veins. The question hangs between us, unanswered.

His fingers drum once against the glass counter. The rhythm draws my attention to his hands - elegant but scarred across the knuckles. A fighter's hands wrapped in a businessman's manicure.

"One is fine." The words drop like ice cubes into still water.

I nod, reaching for our largest shopping bag. The total flashes on the register screen - enough to cover three months of rent for my first apartment. He doesn't even glance at it, just slides a black card across the counter.

Most of my high-end clients project danger like a fashion statement, carefully cultivated to match their Italian leather and Swiss watches. But his runs deeper, colder. It's in the mechanical way he moves, the absolute stillness between breaths. Like someone reached inside and scooped out whatever makes people human, leaving behind only sharp edges and empty space.

His eyes catch mine as I return his card. Blue as arctic ice, but there's nothing frozen about the way they strip me bare, analyzing and cataloging every micro-expression. I'veseen predators before - Chicago's underworld shops here often enough - but they all burn hot with barely contained violence. He's different. Clinical. As if violence is just another tool, no more emotional than choosing a tie.

The receipt prints with a soft whir. When I look up, he's closer than before, though I never saw him move. That expensive cologne fills my lungs, making my head spin. My fingers brush his as I hand over the bag, and electricity arcs between us. His eyes darken a fraction - and I'm almost stunned by it. Everything about him is subtle, but this is unmistakable.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air feels thick, charged with something dangerous and magnetic. Then his lips curve into what might be a smile on anyone else, but on him looks more like a weapon being drawn.

I stare at the door long after he leaves, my heart still racing beneath my silk blouse. The store feels colder without his presence, though that makes no sense. My fingers tremble as I count the stack of hundreds he insisted on using instead of the card for his final purchase - a silk tie he'd added at the last second.

The spot where his watch rested on the counter draws my attention like a magnet. I trace my fingertips over the glass, remembering how the vintage Rolex had caught the light. That brief flash of something raw in his eyes when I'd mentioned it haunts me. For that split second, he'd been human. Dangerous, lethal even, but human.

"Get it together, Skye," I mutter, forcing myself to step back from the counter. But my body betrays me, skin still tingling where his fingers brushed mine.

I've served dangerous men before. Chicago's elite shop here regularly - mobsters, corrupt politicians, dirty cops. I know better than to let them affect me. But he was different. The others wear their violence like designer labels, proud andobvious. His runs deeper, colder. More refined. Like glacier ice that looks beautiful until you realize how easily it could kill you.

Those eyes though... Arctic blue and empty one moment, burning with intensity the next. The way they stripped me bare, analyzing every micro-expression. No one's ever looked at me like that - like I'm a puzzle they want to take apart piece by piece.

I shake my head, grabbing my tablet to update inventory. I can't afford these thoughts. Men like him don't just break hearts - they shatter lives. The way Mrs. Cappalletti reacted proved that. Besides, he was practically mechanical. A beautiful machine wrapped in luxury suits, moving with lethal precision.

But my traitor mind keeps drifting back to that moment when our fingers touched. The electricity that arced between us. The way his eyes darkened, that perfect control slipping for just a heartbeat.

My hands are still shaking.

7

LUCA

Idrum my fingers against the scarred oak table, studying the abandoned warehouse's rusted support beams. Dim light filters through broken windows, casting long shadows across my inner circle's faces. Bas spreads surveillance photos while Mickey and Carmine flank the exits. Ace keeps watch outside.

My thumb brushes over my grandfather's watch - again. The silver band catches what little light penetrates this shithole. I stop the motion immediately, jaw clenching at my lack of control. Skye's interest in the timepiece lingers in my mind like an infection I can't shake, making me all too aware of it now. The way her amber eyes had locked onto it, how I'd wanted to tell her about it...

"Boss?" Bas's gravelly voice cuts through my thoughts. "These came in from our guy watching the Cappalletti territory."

I lean forward, scanning the grainy images. Most show their usual operations - money drops, protection collections. Then my gaze catches on a particular set. Enzo Rossi outside Giovanni's shell house. His tattooed arms are crossed, stance rigid with barely contained rage as he faces off with Alfonso Figarello.Well, well. Looks like he isn't so happy with the family after all - glad to see it's a point I can keep pushing to get my way.

"When were these taken?" I keep my voice neutral, but my mind races with possibilities.

"Yesterday afternoon. Our guy says Enzo stormed out right after, nearly took the door off its hinges."

Interesting. Enzo's normally unflappable - seeing him lose composure means something significant is brewing within the Cappalletti ranks. Discord we could potentially exploit.

"Track his movements," I order, sliding the photos back. "I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he talks to."

"Already on it." Bas nods. "What about your father's schedule for next week?"

My hand stills completely on the watch. "Everything's in place. No changes needed." I've planned this for too long to let anything derail it now. The old man's time is running out, just like my mother's did in that car.

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