Page 86 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

But I won’t let him control me, not when I have a life to save.

“You killed your cousin,” I say. My voice wavers a bit, but my chin remains rigid. Stubborn. “Did he die the same way you killed my parents?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ethan

What?

My jaw is fighting not to drop as I stare at Natalie. She’s all shades of angry—with one hand on the door, ready to slam me into oblivion, the other on her stomach, and her eyes blazing.

When I was driving here from my office, trying to beat a nonexistent record, the only thing I could think about was hearing her voice again. I’d forgotten what it sounded like, for the most part, and it almost drove me crazy.

It didn’t matter that I was disheveled and I had hardly wiped the slobber from one of the directors off my hands—he begged so much he started to foam at the mouth—I needed to seeher.

Natalie.

Natalie.

It drove me past cars, changing lanes like traffic rules didn’t apply to me. The world sped up until everything rode by in a blur, a mash of dull colors that needed her to give it light.

Then she opened the door… and time slowed down until it began to tick again. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Didn’t want to.

It was all I could do to keep from yanking her against my chest and crushing my lips to hers. Her scent—god,the smell of sugar and sweet—felt like heaven’s soft clouds to my senses.

I wanted to catch her lips with mine and kiss her slow and deep. I wanted to strip her of the flimsy tee she had on and trail my hands down her body until my desire bled into her skin and her warmth seeped into mine.

Her nipples, poking through the shirt,beggedfor my mouth. For my tongue. For my attention. For worship.

And her feet.

Who knew that penguin-themed socks could be so sexy? I would’ve gone on my knees if she asked and gladly offered my shoulders for her feet while my face made home between her thighs.

But the shock on her face was quickly replaced by something else, and I knew if I’d stepped any closer, my cheek would’ve borne the mark of her fury. If she could, I know Natalie would’ve wished me into nonexistence.

But her question, the one she posed with her voice clipped and her tone venomous, leaves me tongue-tied for the longest time.

“‘Killed your parents?’” I echo. “What are you talking about?”

I don’t know why I told her that I killed Anthony. It sort of fell out—the same way my confessions have slipped out in the middle of the night, every last one carrying her name.

“You,” she says tightly, pointing an accusing finger at me. Her voice rings with something familiar. I know it because I tasted the samevenom when I thought of revenge. I drank it willingly when I took out my revenge.

“You’re the mafia. I saw it all over the internet. You ordered the hit on the neighborhood where my parents were killed.”

Oh.

“I—”

Natalie shakes her head. “No. If you’re going to give excuses and tell me that it was who you used to be, then don’t. I don’t care for it, and frankly,” she exhales sharply, “I don’t care for you.”

She doesn’t mean it.

Even as her words, heavy with finality, and the silence that follows build a wall between us, I refuse to believe Natalie truly meant them.

I’ve been with enough women to know the difference between fleeting desire and something deeper, something unshakable. My hands have traced the secrets of her body, memorized the delicate curve of her spine.

Then again, if she didn’t mean it, maybe she should.

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