Page 32 of His Ruthless Claim

I try to wrench free but his grip tightens. "Take your hands off me."

"Or what?" He yanks me closer. "Your fancy dresses gonna protect you?"

The boutique door opens. Two men in tailored black suits step inside, moving with lethal grace. The first one - Mickey, I recognize him from Luca's crew - strikes like a cobra. In one fluid motion, he breaks the man's hold on my arm and twists it behind his back.

The second guard sweeps the O'Malley soldier's legs out from under him. They drag him toward the back room with practiced efficiency, as if taking out the trash.

My other customers barely glance up from browsing. Mrs. Chen continues examining a Gucci bag while her bodyguard shifts slightly to block her view. The teenage daughter of the Romanov underboss just turns up her music, bobbing her head to whatever's playing through her AirPods.

The boutique door slams open. Luca fills the entrance, his tall frame casting a shadow across my scattered designer pieces. His ice blue eyes lock onto mine, and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. That perfect mask of indifference cracks - just slightly - as his gaze sweeps over me, cataloging every detail for injury.

His fingers twist around his watch, the only tell that betrays the rage simmering beneath that controlled exterior. Two steps bring him to me, each movement precise and lethal. The expensive fabric of his suit pulls across broad shoulders as he reaches out, tilting my chin up with one finger.

"Are you hurt?" The words come out clipped, measured.

"I'm fine." I resist the urge to lean into his touch. "Though my new Versace collection isn't."

His jaw tightens. Behind him, muffled thuds and a sharp cry echo from the back room where his men are no doubt teaching the O'Malley thug some manners. Luca doesn't even blink at the sound.

"This is what I warned you about." His thumb traces along my jawline, the gesture possessive rather than comforting. "You aren't safe."

I meet his gaze, refusing to be cowed by the darkness I see there. "Good thing I got your friends here to protect me then."

Something flashes in those empty eyes - hunger, perhaps. Or warning. His fingers slide into my hair, gripping just tight enough to let me know he's serious, but I want more. I shouldn't, but I want so much from him when I need to walk away. The gesture is commanding, almost primitive, at odds with his usual calculating demeanor.

"I'll get more guys here. But you need to rethink who you are letting in here." His voice drops lower, rough with something that isn't quite threat and isn't quite promise.

"Guys like you?"

I swear a ghost of a smile breezes over his lips. "Exactly."

I tip my chin up. "Put guys and cameras on the streets, but don't mess with my business. I can handle myself."

Around us, my customers pretend to shop, their whispered conversations creating a backdrop of nervous energy. But I barely notice them. All I can focus on is the way Luca's hand isstill buried in my hair while his eyes devour me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"We'll discuss this later." Luca's fingers untangle from my hair with deliberate slowness. His eyes linger on my face for a heartbeat longer before he turns, stalking toward the back room. The sharp Italian of his commands cuts through the air, followed by shuffling and a final pained grunt.

Moments later, his men emerge, adjusting their suit jackets. Luca follows, not a hair out of place despite whatever happened in there. He pauses at the door, his hand settling on that silver watch again. "I'm posting guards outside. Actual guards that will interfere with the wrong "customer." Don't argue."

The bell chimes his exit, and the boutique exhales.

Mrs. Chen approaches the counter, her Louboutins clicking against marble. Her silk Hermès scarf whispers as she leans in. "I'll take the Gucci. And perhaps we should discuss moving my weekly appointments to Thursdays?" Her perfectly lined eyes dart meaningfully toward where Luca disappeared. "When he usually visits."

I maintain my professional smile, but my stomach tightens. Of course she noticed his pattern.

The next few days bring a parade of mafia wives, each one more eager than the last to share their thoughts on my "situation." Sophia Romanov, dripping in diamonds that probably cost more than my entire inventory, spends an hour trying on dresses she has no intention of buying.

"You know, darling," she drawls, adjusting her cascading blonde curls in my mirror, "most of us waited years to catch even a glimpse of genuine interest from Luca Mantione. Yet here you are, commanding his personal attention after what? A few months?"

I busy myself retrieving another size. "I don't command anything."

"Oh please." She waves a manicured hand. "That display yesterday? The man practically marked his territory. I haven't seen him touch anyone since—" She stops, red lips pressing together. "Well. Let's just say you've made quite the impression on our ice prince."

Later, Isabella Chen returns, this time without her mother. Her designer bag lands on my counter with a thud. "I need a dress that says 'I'm not afraid of you anymore.'" Her dark eyes gleam. "Now that we know who's got your back, maybe you can finally tell me what you really think about that bitch Katrina's attempt to steal my boyfriend."

The whispers follow me everywhere now. The wives watch me like I'm a particularly fascinating science experiment. Their daughters treat me like their new best friend. Even their guards stand a little straighter when I pass, offering respectful nods.

I've become something new in their world - not quite one of them, but definitely not an outsider anymore. And all because Luca Mantione can't seem to stay away from my boutique.

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