Page 30 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

“You’re a bold man,” Vincenzo started, swirling his wine in his glass. “Your brother, Silas… he wasn’t half as confident as you.”

I smirked. “My brother was a businessman above anything else. I’m a different breed.”

Vincenzo nodded approvingly. “That, I can see.” He took a sip of his wine before setting the glass down. “So, tell me, Sebastian, what is it exactly that you want from me?”

I leaned back in my chair, keeping my expression unreadable. “Partnership. You got the product, I got the infrastructure to move it. Drugs, artillery, high-grade shit. You let me push it through my channels, and I promise you, your profits will triple.”

Vincenzo studied me for a long moment. “And why should I trust you? You’re young. This game eats men alive.”

I let out a low chuckle. “Because I ain’t afraid to get my hands dirty. And because I always deliver.”

The tension at the table thickened, but I didn’t waver. I met Vincenzo's gaze head-on, letting him see exactly who he was dealing with. After a long pause, Vincenzo grinned. “I like you.”

Parker shifted beside me, and when I glanced at her, I could see it—she was impressed. She didn’t say it, but her body language gave it away. The way she sat a little straighter, the way her eyes flicked between me and Vincenzo, like she was seeing me in a new light.

Dinner continued with casual conversation. Vincenzo's women laughed at his jokes, the wine kept flowing, and by the time dessert was served, the deal was practically sealed.

After dinner, we moved to the grand living room, where business talk resumed. Money was discussed. Numbers were thrown out. Terms were negotiated. And through it all, I made sure Vincenzo understood exactly who he was dealing with—I wasn’t some desperate man looking for a handout. I was a boss, and I moved like one.

By the end of the night, Vincenzo leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. “I’ll have my men handle the rest. We’re all good.”

I nodded, knowing I’d won. On the way out, as we walked toward the limo, I leaned down, my lips brushing Parker’s ear. “You played your part well tonight,” I murmured. “Think you deserve a treat.”

I felt her body react—just a slight shiver, the way she sucked in a tiny breath. But then, just as quickly, she rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Shooter.”

I chuckled, knowing damn well she felt every word. She could front all she wanted, but we both knew the truth. I was getting under her skin and she liked it.

Parker

T h e p r i v a t e j e twas quiet, the hum of the engines the only sound filling the space between us. We were on our way back to the city, the night still stretching long before us. The meeting had gone better than I expected. Watching Shooter operate in business mode—without having to kill someone to prove a point—had been… something.

I hated how much I’d admired it. The way he spoke, his confidence, the way he moved and controlled the room without raising his voice, without breaking a sweat—it was sexy. And I hated that it was sexy. Hated the way it made my body react, the slow burn that curled in my stomach as I watched him handle a room full of dangerous men like he’d been doing it all his life.

I wasn’t supposed to find that attractive. Shooter was a menace. A violent, dangerous man who had no business making me feel like this. And yet, my body didn’t seem to care. I sat across from him in the jet, my legs crossed, my arms folded, my mind a mess. The flight attendant had already come by to offer drinks, but I waved her off, knowing alcohol wasn’t going to be enough to settle what was happening inside me.

Then, Shooter pulled out a blunt. He sparked it, the flame from his lighter illuminating his sharp, unreadable expression. He took a slow drag, his lips wrapping around the tip before exhaling a stream of thick smoke into the air.

Before I could stop myself, I reached across the space between us and plucked the blunt right from his fingers. His blue eyes flicked up to mine, unreadable and dangerous. I didn’t look away. Lifting the blunt to my lips, I took a deep inhale, letting the thick smoke fill my lungs, hoping—praying—it would calm the heat coursing through me.

Shooter didn’t say a word, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. It was the same look he’d had when he slammed my college friend’s head against the counter at the store. The same look he had when he wrapped his hand around my throat before kissing me into oblivion. The blunt was already working its way through my system, but that look? That was what really had me feeling lightheaded.

Slowly, deliberately, Shooter leaned forward, rising from his seat across from me and moving to the one right next to mine. The private jet was spacious—plenty of seats, plenty of space—yet he chose to sit right next to me. I took another slow pull from the blunt, pretending like my pulse hadn’t just skyrocketed. Shooter said nothing. He just watched. The weight of his stare burned through me. His scent—that expensive cologne and the faintest trace of smoke—wrapped around me, making it impossible to focus on anything but him.

I felt his head dip slightly, the warmth of his breath fanning against my neck. I inhaled sharply. His lips never touched me, but it didn’t matter. The heat of him was enough to have me damn near trembling. Pussy dripping. This was a game. A dangerous, silent game. Shooter wanted me to break first. And damn it, I did. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and whispered the truth I hated more than anything.

“I hate that I want you.” The moment the words left my mouth, Shooter chuckled low. Dark. Deep. Like he already knew. Because, of course he did.

The second the jet landed, the tension between us was suffocating. Shooter knew exactly what he was doing—watching me like a predator who had all the time in the world to pounce. Like he knew the second we got back to the penthouse, I was going to break.

The ride from the private hangar to the penthouse was quiet. I refused to look at him, and he let me stew in my own frustration, one hand on the wheel, the other lazily draped across his thigh. He had that damn smirk on his face the entire drive.

By the time we stepped off the elevator and into the penthouse, I was done pretending. The second the door shut behind us, I was on him. I shoved at his chest, grabbing at his shirt, pulling him toward me with a hunger that I couldn’t suppress any longer. My mouth crashed against his, and he didn’t hesitate to kiss me back, his large, tattooed hands palming my ass, dragging me against his hard, unmovable body.

He kissed me slowly at first, like he was savoring the moment. It pissed me off. I deepened the kiss, nipping at his bottom lip, trying to take control, but he pulled back slightly, his blue eyes flashing with amusement. “You good?” His voice was low, teasing.

I glared at him, my chest heaving. “Shut the fuck up.” He chuckled, slow and deep, like he had won. Like he had me exactly where he wanted me. “You think this is funny?” I snapped, my hands still fisted in his shirt.

“A lil’ bit,” he admitted, gripping my chin between his fingers. “Watchin’ you fight yourself? Watchin’ you give in? Yeah, baby, that shit funny as hell.”

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