Page 84 of Savage Enemy

“I mean no disrespect. But we all know the circumstances. She’s no longer pure or worthy of marriage or giving my boss his heirs. We hear she gave some low-level Italian a bastard.”

My blood burned like fire through my veins.

How dare he speak that way about me while I stood right there? How dare he talk about Stefano and Enzo like that?

A menacing gleam darkened Santo’s eyes.

“Regardless. Look around. Some civility is in order.”

The Russian laughed again and waved him off.

“Women bought to be whores do not deserve civility.”

Santo’s hands flexed at his sides. I shot him a warning look, though I would’ve really preferred to offer him my help.

The stupid Russian didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy circling me, like a buyer at a car dealership or a starving man at a butcher shop. I half expected him to request a test drive—in which case I would’ve broken his big, ugly nose. Judging by its crookedness, it wouldn’t have been the first time.

The idea of anyone but Stefano touching me made my skin crawl. Everything about it felt wrong. Mortal sin wrong.

“Yes, I think she will do nicely,” Ivan added. “Many of the men like women with… how do you say? Extra in the trunk?”

Did this asshole just call me fat?

“When looking for a wife,” he continued, “we prefer slender Russian women. But for a whore, more junk is a good change.”

Never mind his nose. I wanted to break his fucking cock.

Ivan got out his phone and circled me again, making a video, then snapped photos of my chest and the way my dress hugged my ass before slipping his phone back into his breast pocket.

“Yes, I think the boss will be happy to add this one. I will send him the video and my recommendation. He will call your father with an offer. Good evening.”

With his evaluation now completed, Ivan walked away.

I’d never felt so violated in my life.

Fuming, I turned to Santo.

“Is it just me, or did being in his presence make your trigger finger like super itchy?”

“Yeah,” Santo admitted. “I love how you say it like you’ve actually killed a man before.”

I stared at him over my glass with a raised brow.

My brother lifted his chin as if impressed.

“The fuck? Really? Who?”

“The last man who thought I was his property to abuse. I shot him with his own pistol.”

I winced. I’d said it so matter-of-factly.

Maybe because it felt like it happened a long time ago, to someone else. The trauma had joined all my other nightmares, lurking in the recesses of my mind, the hiding place for the things that should have broken me but hadn’t.

But these nightmares had a way of opening the deep, dark pits beneath me—even years later—and some could drag me down kicking and screaming.

Which was how I’d ended up here.

Santo nodded. “Well, good for you, sister. Not sure that’ll work on the Russians, though.”

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