Page 6 of His Ruthless Claim

Yet here I am, tracking the movement of her hands, cataloging the way her silk dress clings to curves that belong in a Renaissance painting. The urge to know more about her burns like whiskey in my throat.

This won't do. Control requires distance. Distance requires detachment. I've built my empire on these principles, carved my name into Chicago's underworld by being the man who feels nothing.

Mickey and Ace hop in the back seat, ready to talk about the meeting. I see Bas turn out of the corner of my eye, giving them a subtle head shake.

"You know, Bas?" I look at him and his face goes pale. I wonder if one look from me would haveherlooking so scared. Something tells me that's not the case. "Get me the information on that boutique after all."

"You got it, boss."

I know they are all waiting for me to drive, but I have no intention of leaving. Not yet. Instead, I look forward as I tell him, in a calm voice so quiet that I know it's intimidating, "Now."

Bas is out of the car and taking off before I draw my neck breath. See? Smart guy.

"You two handle surveillance. I want you monitoring the street, see if the crew is lying. Stay in this area for the rest of the day."

Then they are both gone, too. Leaving me alone, where my control starts to slip. Again.

Through tinted windows, I watch her routine unfold as the sun dips below Chicago's skyline. She moves with practiced efficiency, but there's an edge to her movements that speaks of street smarts beneath the designer exterior. Her head turns at calculated intervals, amber eyes scanning the darkening street before she continues her closing duties.

She's no stranger to danger. The way she positions herself - always maintaining clear sightlines to exits and streets - tells me she's learned the hard way about this neighborhood's reputation. Smart woman. This area might be gentrifying, but old blood still runs through these streets. My blood.

The last customer leaves, and she locks the door with one smooth motion, never fully turning her back to the street. I'm curious if she's noticed Mickey and Ace outside all day.

My phone vibrates. Bas' preliminary report. I scan it without taking my eyes off her figure as she moves through the shop, turning off displays. Skye Calloway. The name fits her - untouchable, elevated above the grime of this city. But she's built something here, carved out her own territory with determination that rivals any made man's.

I don't want to spook her, nor do I want to approach her. I'm not really sure what it is I'm doing, wasting half a day just watching her. But before she can come out, I send a message to Ace, telling them to get lost. They leave just as the door swings open.

Security system armed and designer bag clutched close to her body, Skye steps outside. She locks the door and then starts in the opposite direction. Her heels click against concrete - purposeful strides that eat up distance without sacrificing awareness. No fumbling for keys, no distracted phone checks. She knows better.

I follow her path through my side mirror, tracking the sway of her hips, the confident set of her shoulders. Everything about her screams self-made success, but with an edge sharp enough to draw blood. My kind of dangerous.

I don't even think as I step out of my car. The pull to her has me acting without thought, has something that feels too much like emotion rolling through me. I want to follow her, to continue to watch her, to know everything.

It's a practice of extreme control that I let her keep walking away.

The click of her heels grows distant. I roll my shoulders, adjusting my suit jacket. The night air carries traces of herperfume - something expensive but not overwhelming. Like everything else about her, it's a deliberate choice.

She rounds the corner ahead, but not before throwing a glance over her shoulder. Our eyes lock. Even from this distance, I catch the flash of her amber eyes taking me. Her step falters - barely noticeable, but enough.

She doesn't run. Doesn't speed up. Just maintains her measured pace as she disappears around the corner, leaving me standing in the pool of a streetlight with my hands clenched at my sides.

The urge to follow hits like a physical blow. My feet want to move, to track her movement through these familiar streets. I haven't felt this pull since... ever. The loss of control burns in my chest, foreign and unwelcome.

My watch ticks steadily, counting seconds as I war with this new compulsion. I'm Luca fucking Mantione. I don't chase women. I don't feel this desperate need to know where they're going, what they're thinking.

But her knowing look replays in my mind. The way her lips curved slightly before she turned away. Like she knew exactly what effect she had on me and found it amusing.

The muscle in my jaw ticks. Nobody laughs at me. Nobody walks away without my permission. Yet here I stand, fighting the magnetic pull of her disappearing figure while my carefully maintained control crumbles like wet paper.

4

SKYE

The bass reverberates through my heels as I stride through The Vault's entrance, Kendra just ahead of me. Marco, who works for Nerio, gives us a quick nod and steps aside without checking our IDs. The line of waiting patrons shifts, their whispers following us inside. Being Jazz's friends comes with perks these days - and complications.

Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow across the dark mahogany and leather interior. I weave between tables, catching fragments of hushed conversations that pause as I pass, trying to keep up with Kendra. A dealer I recognize from my boutique raises his glass in acknowledgment. I return the gesture with practiced grace, maintaining the delicate balance of courtesy without invitation.

Our corner booth awaits, partially hidden behind a curved partition that offers the illusion of privacy. Jazz sits rigid despite the plush cushions, her fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on her glass. The ice hasn't even started melting yet.

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