Page 4 of The Deal

“Alex,” Lorenzo grumbles. “Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

“It’s Mr Mancini to you,” I reply dryly, dragging my eyes away from the woman and slightly narrowing them as I refocus on my family’s accountant.

I may not be my father, but I’m no pushover either, so I don’t appreciate his tone.

I’ve never been a fan of this guy, not even close, but my father handpicked him years ago to take over the books after our previous guy decided it was a good idea to skim some of the profits.

That’s what happens when you entrust someone who isn’t part of the family with the daily running of numerous businesses. In a way, though, it ended up being a blessing for me. It gave me the chance to move to Sydney and take over, pulling me out of the madness in Griffith.

Lorenzo clears his throat. “I’m sorry … Mr Mancini.”

“You were saying?”

His attention shifts in the direction mine just came from. “You checking out the brunette?” he asks, giving a flick of his chin. “Nice … I’d tap that,” he adds with a chuckle, and I feel my gaze turn into a murderous glare. “I get why you got distracted.”

His beady eyes rake down her body, and I can feel my blood pressure spike to a dangerous level. It’s been a long time since anyone has made me this angry. This fucker better watch himself. He’s skating on thin ice right now.

“Don’t look at her,” I growl. There’s so much venom in my tone that he pales in response.

Antonio, who’s sitting beside me, even rears back slightly in shock. He’s been my right-hand man since I moved up here and is not used to seeing this possessive side of me … not when it comes to women, anyway. It’s a side of me I don’t even recognise myself. So much so it leaves me feeling extremely uncomfortable.

I don’t question his curiosity when Antonio glances overhis shoulder in that direction. He’s happily married with two young kids, and not a fucking creep like Lorenzo is. Besides, I trust this man with my life. That’s why he’s been my closest confidant for years.

“Is she counting out her change on the bar top?” he asks, frowning.

My gaze snaps back to her, and I see her rummaging around in the bottom of her bag. She pulls out more coins, dumping them down with the rest of the pile.

She begins shifting the coins into neat little piles as one of my staff members stands there impatiently waiting.

I place my flattened palms on each armrest, ready to stand and go over there, but before I do, some fucker approaches her and pulls out his credit card. He juts his head in her direction as he hands it over to the staff member.

That move has me seeing red. Antonio must sense it because he places his hand on my arm, discreetly shaking his head. This is why he’s always by my side. He’s the calm to my storm.

With the heat currently hovering over some of my father’s establishments and the Feds always lingering in the background, waiting for a chance to pounce, the last thing I need is to bring unwanted attention to myself or my hotel.

The woman from the window raises her hand and shakes her head at the man’s persistence to pay for her drink, but the arsehole ignores her, saying something to my staff member, who retreats with his card in hand.

When he takes the stool beside her, I drop back into my seat and pull out my phone.

I won’t go over there and make a scene, but I can get one of my bodyguards to remove him.

Me: See that guy in the grey shirt at the bar? The one sniffing around the woman in the white shirt. Remove him and make sure he doesn’t return.

Marco: Do you want me to rough him up a bit?

Me: Only if he puts up a fight and you feel it’s warranted.

Marco: On it, boss.

When I slide my phone back into the pocket of my suit jacket, Antonio arches one of his thick, bushy brows at me.

“What?” I mumble. “I’m keeping my hands clean.”

He barks out a laugh as he watches Marco approach the bar and grab the guy by the arm. “And what has he done wrong apart from paying for the brunette’s drink?”

I clear my throat because I hate that he knows me so well. “If I wanted your opinion, I would’ve asked for it,” I grumble.

“Sorry, boss,” he says, settling back into his chair and smirking like a motherfucker.

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