Page 4 of Scarlet Vows
He laughs and squeezes my thigh so hard I whimper.
It seems to please him, and he stops.
“You might not want to do that. See, Alina, I know who you are.”
“I don’t know you.”
His gaze hits mine. Hard. Flinty, even as he continues to smile. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize me. After all, I went to school with your brother.”
I frown at him. “We’re a number of years apart. And I don’t know you.”
But he isn’t listening.
“By the way, is Demyan still an A-grade asshole?”
I narrow my eyes.
Any friend of Demyan’s wouldn’t be like this. And even someone who knew him at school would have to have a death wish to harass his sister.
Who the hell is this douche?
“If anyone’s an asshole, it’s you,” I say.
He laughs. “Oh, you’re feisty. I love that. I’m shocked Demyan ever let you develop anything approaching a personality beyond a doormat.”
“I’m shocked you’re too stupid to get the message that I don’t want to talk to you.”
“You say that now,” he murmurs, “but the thing is I love a chase, and you’re just making yourself more and more irresistible the harder you play.”
“Disinterested.Notplaying.”
He chuckles. “See? You might be perfect.” Then he holds out a hand. “I’m Santo Barone.”
For a moment, I don’t move.
Santo Barone.
I know the name, who he is.
Santo’s the don of the Barone mafia, one of the most ruthless crime families in the city. But more than that, I remember Demyan and his friends laughing about him as teens.
A sickening realization hits.
Demyan used to fight with him, put him in his place. Some factions called it bullying; Demyan called it justified.
From the stories I remember, Santo was a bully himself, a big kid on campus who liked to treat the girls like his own personal playthings, and he cheated on all his girlfriends.
Even at college, Demyan said Santo was a womanizing asshole, a piece of shit who’d sell his own mother on the streets if he could make a dime off of her.
Santo’s smile turns real. It’s still nasty, still sleazy, but now there’s actual delight.
“Now you recognize me. That’s good because I like my dates to be prepared. In every way.”
He deliberately licks his lips, and my stomach turns.
“I’m not dating you,” I say.
“Friday night. I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear something pretty, nice, and short. Accessible. Heels.”
