Page 8 of His Ruthless Claim

But I catch the slight tremor in her hand as she lifts her glass. Being Nerio's woman means wearing a target as much as that diamond. The soldiers' gazes sweep our corner, lingering a beat too long on Jazz. I resist the urge to shrink back, instead meeting their stares with the same cool disdain I reserve for customers who try to haggle at my boutique.

The leader smirks, raising his whiskey in a mock toast. Jazz's phone buzzes - Nerio's response, no doubt. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly as she reads, but her eyes never leave our unwelcome visitors.

A waiter approaches with fresh drinks, his practiced smile wavering as he glances at the Mantione soldiers. "Careful heading home tonight, ladies. Three shootings this week already." He sets down my martini. "Word is someone's making moves in the neighborhood."

The soldiers bark out laughs at some crude joke, but my mind races through conversations from my boutique. Yesterday, Mrs. Castellano dropped fifteen grand on designer bags while casually mentioning her husband moving their valuables to their lake house. The Vitelli sisters canceled their monthly styling appointment - first time in three years. And those guys today, watching...

"Jazz, I think I should tell you something. My clients have been-" The words die in my throat as I shift and I see ice blue eyes connect with mine in that split second.

He's there. At the bar. The same man who's been outside my shop, now close enough for me to see the predatory grace in how he holds himself. Expensive black suit that screams Italian tailoring. Dark hair swept back, revealing sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. But it's his eyes that freeze me. I've never seen anyone with such pale eyes, and they are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.

He lifts his whiskey, taking a deliberate sip without breaking eye contact. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I've seen dangerous men before - you don't survive in Chicago's fashion scene without learning to recognize them. But something about him is different. More controlled. More lethal. And while danger radiates off him, there's not an emotion on his face.

"Skye?" Jazz's voice seems distant. "What were you saying about your clients?"

I force myself to look away from those arctic eyes, but I can still feel them on my skin like a physical touch. "I... it's probably nothing."

The corner of his mouth curves up slightly, as if he knows exactly why I stopped talking. As if he's pleased by my silence.

"Someone's caught our queen's eye." Jazz's tension melts into a knowing smirk. The Mantione soldiers forgotten as she follows my gaze. "Damn. That's some suit."

"Brioni." The label rolls off my tongue automatically. "Custom, by the cut." I try to focus on the technical details rather than how his presence seems to consume all the oxygen in the room.

"The suit's what you're studying so hard?" Mikayla giggles, but it dies quickly when she really looks at him. Even she can sense the danger rolling off him in waves.

I watch as a drunk patron stumbles too close to his space at the bar. The man practically trips over himself backing away, though Mr. Dangerous hasn't moved a muscle. The crowd parts around him like water around a shark.

His fingers brush a watch on his wrist - a silver Rolex that peeks out from under his sleeve. The gesture should seem nervous, but on him it reads more like a predator flexing its claws. Testing them.

"It looks like he's found something he likes," Kendra observes.

"I'd be careful." Jazz's voice carries a weight that draws all our attention. "Especially with anyone you meet in here.”

I meet his gaze again, electricity dancing along my spine. His eyes haven't left me once, patient and calculating. Like he's solving a puzzle only he can see.

"Well?" Mikayla prompts. "Are you going to talk to him?"

"No." I take a slow sip of my martini, matching his steady stare. "He'll come to me when he's ready."

His lips curve into something too sharp to be called a smile, and I know I've passed some kind of test.

5

LUCA

Iflip through the dossier, studying each meticulously gathered detail about Skye Calloway. The leather chair in my father's office creaks as I lean back, eyes scanning surveillance photos spread across the mahogany desk. Her boutique's financial records paint a picture of shrewd business acumen - something I can appreciate.

"Your coffee, sir." My father's secretary places a steaming cup beside me.

I don't acknowledge her presence. She leaves quickly, the click of her heels fading down the hall.

The photos capture Skye's graceful movements, her amber eyes sharp as she manages her shop. Her sleek black hair catches the sunlight through the boutique's windows. The tight dresses she favors highlight curves that shouldn't distract me.

But everything about her distracts me.

I tap my grandfather's Rolex against the desk, a habit I've developed when processing information. The boutique's location is prime real estate - directly between Bueti and Mantione territory. Not too far from the Cappallettis, since we all have a slice of downtown.

As it turns out, it's not too far from the Vault. Not too coincidental when I find that she is close friends with Nerio's girl. She could be useful to me then. The only reason I'm still even looking into her.

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