Page 25 of His Ruthless Claim

"Or figure out if you're a threat." Mikayla's soft voice trembles.

"No." I straighten my shoulders, meeting each of their concerned gazes. "He's curious. I can tell by the way he moves through the store. How he examines everything but focuses on nothing. It's like..." I pause, searching for the right words. "Like he's studying human behavior through a microscope."

"That's not better, Skye." Jazz's phoenix tattoo catches the light as she reaches for the wine bottle. "Men like Luca don't get curious. They get calculating."

But I think about those ice-blue eyes, devoid of warmth yet somehow magnetic. The precise way he handles merchandise, as if testing the reality of each item. How he'll stand perfectly still, watching interactions between customers with scientific detachment.

"Maybe." I take another sip of wine, letting the rich flavor roll across my tongue. "But I think there's more to it than that."

None of them seem convinced. And not too long after, I decide to leave. I can't stand the tension I caused, especially when I'm not sure if I'm really being too trusting when it comes to him.

Back in my apartment, I curl into the window seat overlooking the quiet street below. The city lights paint shadows across my silk robe as I twist my amber necklace between my fingers, mind racing through every encounter with Luca Mantione.

That first visit over a month ago. The way he'd entered my boutique like he owned it, those expensive Italian leather shoes silent against the hardwood floors. No browsing, no hesitation - he'd moved with surgical precision through my store like he knew the layout. I remember how he'd touched each item methodically, testing weight and texture while revealing nothing in those empty blue eyes.

The silver Rolex on his wrist had caught my attention - not because of its obvious value, but because of how often he'd touch it. A tell, I'd thought at the time. Now I wonder if it's something else entirely. A reminder? A warning?

I take a slow sip of chamomile tea, but it does nothing to settle my nerves. Three weeks ago, he'd spent forty-five minutes examining a collection of Italian silk shirts. His long fingers hadmoved over each one with scientific detachment, like a coroner cataloging evidence. When he finally selected the black Armani, his movements were precise, calculated. No joy in the purchase, no satisfaction - just cold efficiency.

The same day his father's associates vanished.

My skin prickles as I recall how the other customers had practically pressed themselves against the walls when he'd approached the register. Even Giovanna Rosetti, who normally commanded any room she entered, had frozen mid-sentence, her perfectly painted lips snapping shut.

But I hadn't known then. Hadn't recognized the power he wielded with those measured steps and dead eyes. I'd suspected but more than anything I'd just found him fascinating - a puzzle of perfect control wrapped in bespoke suits. I'd even teased him about his methodical shopping habits, earning the briefest flicker of... something... in that arctic gaze.

"You're either the pickiest shopper I've ever met," I'd said, "or you're counting threads for quality control."

His response had been characteristic - a slight tilt of the head, those empty eyes studying me like I was an equation he couldn't quite solve. No smile, no frown. Just that unnerving focus that made my pulse jump despite my best efforts to appear unfazed.

God, I'd been playing with fire without even knowing it was lit.

The thought stays with me until I open up the shop the next morning. Soft light streams through the boutique's front windows, catching on designer sequins and casting prisms across the walls. I adjust a Versace dress on its mannequin, my movements deliberate despite the tension coiling in my stomach.

"He's different from his father," Mrs. Bianci whispers as I help her into a Saint Laurent blazer. Her eyes dart to the doorbefore continuing. "Antonio was all fire and rage. But Luca?" She shivers. "Ice runs through that boy's veins."

I nod, cataloging the information while pinning the blazer's sleeve. "How so?"

"I saw him at Mario's funeral - Don Antonio's oldest friend." She crosses herself. "Luca sat through the entire service without moving. Not one tear, not one word. Not even a fake smile to the family. Just watched everyone like he was taking notes."

The bell above the door chimes. Sophia Rosetti sweeps in, dripping in diamonds despite the early hour. Mrs. Bianci's mouth snaps shut.

I spend the next hour gathering pieces of the puzzle. Luca's been systematically dismantling his father's inner circle. Clean. Quiet. Efficient. No bodies, no evidence - just key players vanishing into thin air.

By ten, my hands move steady as I arrange a new shipment of silk scarves. The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. He'll come today - he always does after I receive new Italian imports.

The soft chime of the bell sends Mrs. Bianci and Sophia scurrying out with the expectation I’ll be sending their choices to their homes. The temperature seems to drop as Luca enters, each step measured and precise. His black suit is immaculate, the silver Rolex gleaming at his wrist. Those empty blue eyes scan the store with clinical detachment before landing on me.

I straighten my spine, letting my fingers trail along the silk scarves. His gaze tracks the movement, studying my hands like they're specimens under glass. The usual fear doesn't come. Instead, a different kind of thrill races through my veins.

"The new Zanotti collection arrived," I say, my voice carrying across the quiet store. "Though I suspect you're not here for Italian leather today."

His head tilts slightly - the only indication he's heard me. But something shifts in those arctic eyes as he moves closer, each step a carefully calculated advance.

Game on.

13

LUCA

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