Page 7 of Revenge & Ruin

“You’re the goddamn don now, Teo,” Mia snaps. “She’s your responsibility.”

“She broke my nose,” Dante adds from behind me. It’s likely that he’s guarding the door.

I imagine his nose is already swelling. I imagine the blood dribbling down his chin so that I can distract myself enough to stop my fingers from trembling.

Come on, pull yourself together. It’s just fear.

He’s not the boogeyman. He’s just a person. A person who can bleed, just like everyone else.

“All right, all right!”

I stare at a spot on the pristine white and gold carpet, trying to regulate my breathing.

The only way I survive this is if I’m very, very smart. I can’t look at him. I can’t give him anything. Because the moment he learns my name, I may as well be dead.

“You.”

I keep staring at the carpet.

“Who are you?”

I don’t respond.

Smack.

My cheek burns, and I still don’t look up.

“Mia.”

“She ruined the entrees!” she whines but steps away from me anyway.

“Let me handle this.”

The redhead, thankfully, falls silent.

A pair of dark leather shoes enter my field of vision, and I struggle not to cave in on myself.

“I asked you a question.”

Suddenly, a rough hand yanks my chin upward.

My breath catches in my throat.

His dark hair tumbles out of its hair tie, framing his strong jawline and flawless skin. These are the trademarks of an aristocrat disguised by a short-cut beard and the tattoos that crawl up his neck from below his white shirt collar.

But what draws me in most are his endlessly dark eyes. There’s nearly no distinction between their onyx color and the blackness of his pupils. They are framed by a pair of thick brows set in a seemingly perpetual scowl.

I imagined Teo Vitale to be many things: a monster, an enemy, a threat.

Never once did I think he would be…beautiful.

And that somehow frustrates me more than everything he has ever done to my family.

Of course, I’ve seen his photo before. I’ve studied it. Programmed every camera in our casinos to alert me if his face was ever detected inside or nearby.

It’s funny how much a lens of hatred can mar your perception of someone. In my case, a lens that is overwhelmed the moment the scent of sandalwood and vanilla washes over me.

“Who are you?” he asks, and I’ll be damned, but I watch his perfect lips curve around each word with more attention that I should give to anything about him.

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