Page 31 of His Ruthless Claim

I pull up the building schematics Bas delivered, studying entry points and camera blind spots. I want to put more people on her. Truthfully, I want her glued to my side and I don't know what to do with that feeling.

She'll fight it. I can already picture the flash in those amber eyes, that sharp tongue ready to cut. The thought pulls at something in my chest. She's the only person who dares challenge me, who looks at my carefully constructed control and laughs.

"You can't bubble wrap the world, Luca," she'd said last week, those full lips curved in amusement when I suggested she close earlier.

But I can bubble wrap her. The pen snaps in my grip.

I lean back, studying the feed again. She's counting the register now, those delicate fingers moving with efficient grace.My pulse quickens watching her mouth move as she counts. Everything about her demands my attention - the subtle sway of her hips as she walks, the way her sleek black hair falls when she bends over paperwork, how her light brown skin glows under the store lights.

The need to possess, to control, to protect rises like a tide. I haven't felt this much since - my thumb traces the watch face - since before. Emotions are weakness. Vulnerability invites death. I learned that lesson in blood and screaming metal.

But watching Skye, something cracks in my careful walls. This want, this need - it doesn't feel like weakness. It feels like power. Like violence waiting to be unleashed on anyone who would dare touch her.

I'll find a way to make her see reason. Or I'll do what it takes until she does.

16

SKYE

The bell above my boutique door chimes at 6:45 PM. I've been closed for nearly an hour, but I had inventory to do. I don't need to look up from reorganizing my display of vintage Chanel bags to know who it is - only one person would dare enter uninvited at this hour.

Besides, I canfeelthe energy coming off him. Something about my body is so in tune with him.

"We're closed." I continue adjusting the angle of a classic black quilted clutch.

"That's the problem." Luca's Italian-tinged voice cuts through the silence. His footsteps are silent on the polished concrete floor, but I feel him drawing closer. "Your security is nonexistent."

I turn, keeping my movements unhurried. He towers over me in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His ice blue eyes scan the store with surgical precision.

"I have an alarm system." Not to mention he has guys outside.

"Which didn't stop me from walking right in." His perfectly styled dark hair doesn't move when he tilts his head. "Orthe wives of three different crime families who were here this afternoon."

I cross my arms. "You're keeping tabs on my customers now?"

"When they belong to the Romanovs, Chen syndicate, and O'Malleys? Yes." No inflection in his voice, just cold facts. "You're positioning yourself in the crossfire of several dangerous organizations."

"I'm running a business. My customers' affiliations aren't my concern."

He steps closer, and despite myself, my breath catches. The predatory grace in his movements sends a shiver down my spine that isn't entirely fear.

"Your naivety will get you killed." His words are clipped. "You need protection."

"I don't need anything, especially not from you." I lift my chin, meeting that empty gaze. "I've managed fine on my own."

His hand moves to the silver Rolex on his wrist, fingers gripping it with unusual tension. For a fraction of a second, something flickers in those cold eyes—pain, maybe fear. It vanishes so quickly I almost think I imagined it, but the way his knuckles whiten around the watch tells me otherwise.

"Managing isn't enough." His voice drops lower, an edge I've never heard before creeping in. "Not when you're caught between—" He stops, jaw clenching as he forces whatever emotion tries to surface back into its cage. He sighs then. "You're going to fight me on this, aren't you?"

I flash him a smile. He blinks slowly, almost like he's surprised. I'm sure as a don, especially one as feared as him, he is thrown off by my reaction. Good. "It's what I'm good at."

He drags a hand down his face and turns, heading for the door. "We're not done talking about this."

I'm certain we are.

But then the next morning, I'm arranging a new shipment of Versace when heavy footsteps thunder through my boutique. A burly man in an ill-fitting suit barrels past the entrance, knocking over a rack of silk dresses. The metallic clang of hangers hitting the hard floor makes me wince.

"You think you can serve our competition?" His meaty hand clamps around my forearm. His breath reeks of cigarettes and cheap scotch. "The O'Malleys don't take kindly to that kind of disrespect."

---