Page 14 of Her Dark Salvation

“Siobhán will help you with anything you need on your way out. See you Monday.”

Flustered by the abrupt dismissal, I remained stuck in my chair searching for words amid the awkward silence.

The desk phone rang, my shrill savior.

“Yes,” Mr. DeVita answered.

My shoulders relaxed as soon as he diverted his attention away from me and to his call. I stood, smoothed my skirt, and spotted my purse on the floor next to the chair. Right. Wouldn’t want to forget that. I bent to retrieve it, teetering on my heels.

I rose and turned toward Mr. DeVita to signal my departure, and his eyes were fixed—obviously and with zero shame—on my ass.

A surge of heat rushed my body, making my neck and cheeks flush. He continued his conversation with whomever was on the line and dragged his eyes up my body to where my fingertips pinched my necklace right between my breasts.

He lingered for a moment, and an ache formed deep in the base of my belly. His dark eyes finished their languid journey to my face, and he held my gaze with guileless ease. After a breath that seemed to take an eternity, his focus shifted back to his computer screen.

I didn’t waste another second. I marched out of his office and closed the door behind me, mortified by my reaction even more than his audacity. I should have been pissed off, or at the very least, grossed out. I’d just been eyed like a side of beef by a man who, for the next several weeks, was going to be my boss. Instead, my insides were on fire, every nerve ending lit up from being stroked by his attention.

The elevator doors closed, and as I descended to the ground floor of my new office building, I decided the interlude had been a fluke, an inappropriate lapse of judgment that a professional like Mr. DeVita would never repeat. And if that wasn’t the case? If leering was his MO? To hell with him and his fancy job. I’d take my brains elsewhere and find an opportunity to reshape my career that didn’t come with a side of tall, dark, and Italian.

ChapterFour

Marco

Darkness descended over Boston, a blanket of night through which windows, streetlamps, and headlights twinkled like stars. I flipped up my collar against its cold, sharp edge.

Vito leaned on the hood of my Range Rover, smoking a cigarette. With his scruffy beard, knit beanie, and fleece hoodie, he might as well have been down at the docks unloading the day’s catch. He spied my quick steps, tossed the smoke, and ground it out beneath the toe of his boot. I slid into the passenger side and thanked God for heated seats.

Rush hour traffic around the Commons was a complete cluster, and tonight was especially fucked. Figured. My sister expected me at seven for dinner. We made a point of having dinner together at least once a week. Our immediate family was small, and our parents were living in Italy, having remained in Boston as long as they could without anyone noticing they’d frozen in time. It was a balancing act, managing two estates and swapping our lives every few decades, but we made it work. We had no choice.

I’m running late.

She thumbed-up my text, and I shoved the phone back in my pocket.

We inched along the packed city streets, lights and horns flashing in a cacophony of sights and sounds, none of which could distract me from my current fixation.

“The consultant from CMG starts Monday,” I said.

“Good.”

Vito’d never been one for idle chitchat, but his one word response captured my sentiments. I’d let this bullshit with my European office go on long enough.

What wasn’t good? Distraction. Lips parted in surprise. Fingertips resting on the neckline of a red sweater that plunged between ample breasts. Anna Barone’s image lengthened my fangs and hardened my cock.

She’d known I’d been leering. Her cheeks had colored, and the rush of her blood had resounded like a surging river. I licked my lips not knowing what plagued me worse—my hunger for her blood or my hunger for her cunt.

My semi-hard strained against my suit pants. I shifted uncomfortably, trying to relieve the pressure, and concentrated on retracting my fangs.

My hunger didn’t fucking matter. What mattered was the success of my business and my ability to protect my crew. I unbuttoned my coat and cracked the window, hoping the cold blast of air would calm my fires.

The towering monoliths of Boston’s financial district crept by, our progress slower than my reaction to the mess with my European office.

“We’re out of time,” I said.

“We have a few weeks.”

True. Boston’s zoning commissioner hadn’t officially agreed to my plan or the special provisions I needed to make it happen. The financial district wasn’t zoned for nightclubs, but tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of gambling debt made it a done deal. Unless Shaughnessy got to him first.

“You don’t know what kinda heat he’s getting from the Irish.”

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