Page 11 of Sexted By a Stranger
In an instant, the sound of cocking guns rang out in unison.
"Mr. Bellomo," Connor's expression turned ugly. "This kind of bottom-shelf trash—you fuck 'em and junk 'em. Why so serious?"
Fuck 'em and junk 'em? My temples throbbed violently. How fucking dare he?
"Seems you don't even want the business I threw your way. Now, that opportunity's gone."
Connor's head snapped up, his beady eyes boring into mine, the fat on his face twitching. Finally, he growled, "Let her go."
The men holding Sheila instantly released her. She stumbled, barely able to stand. I strode forward and caught her.
"Sheila. Are you alright?" Madeline came running from a distance, gripping Sheila's shoulders and checking her over.
Sheila shook her head, gasping for air, her body still shaking uncontrollably. She wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and looked straight at me.
"Good." My men immediately stood down. "Remember this lesson, Connor. Next time, you know what happens."
Connor's face turned red, veins bulging on his forehead. He clenched his fists tight, shot Sheila a vicious glare, then waved his hand sharply. He and his men piled into the waiting black sedan and sped off, disappearing into Manhattan's night.
I turned to Sheila. She leaned against me, thin as the last stubborn leaf clinging to autumn branches. Her hair was disheveled, sweat-dampened strands sticking to her pale cheeks.So fragile she might shatter at a touch, yet under the harsh light, she possessed a kind of breathtaking, broken beauty.
"Can you walk?" My voice unconsciously softened.
Sheila lifted her head, those wet eyes gazing up at me. She sniffled softly, trying to stand straighter. "Y-yes. Thank you, Mr. Bellomo." Her voice carried the hoarseness of someone who'd just escaped death—polite and distant.
"I'll take you home." I turned to Madeline. "You handle things here. I'll have my people assist you."
Madeline looked at Sheila with worry, then at me with awe. She released Sheila's other arm and lowered her head. "Yes, Mr. Bellomo. Sheila, are you..." She trailed off.
"Madeline, I'm fine." Sheila forced a reassuring smile for her.
Without another word, I helped Sheila leave. Her hand settled into mine.
The ice-cold touch shot up my arm like electricity, carrying her lingering fear and vulnerability, instantly igniting the protective instinct and near-violent possessiveness in my chest.
My fingers tightened, completely enveloping her hand. It was small but far from smooth or delicate—covered in the thin calluses of constant work, knuckles white with tension. I led her toward the black car waiting at the curb. Lennox had already respectfully opened the rear door.
Inside the car, the lingering scent of cigars took on a different quality with Sheila beside me, emanating her faint, sweet fragrance.
Sheila sat pressed against the opposite door, head slightly lowered. Her body remained tense, hands folded in her lap. The car glided smoothly into Manhattan's traffic. Neon lights filtered through the tinted windows, casting shifting shadows across her face.
"Feeling better?" My gaze fell on her folded hands, breaking the silence in the car.
At the sound, she lifted her head. Our eyes met briefly before she lowered her lashes. Her response was perfectly respectful. "I'm fine now. Thank you, Mr. Bellomo."
"Luca," I corrected her.
She froze, looking up at me again. Her amber pupils clearly reflected my image, filled with confusion.
"My name. Luca Bellomo." I added, locking my gaze on hers, not missing any subtle change in her expression. The dim light blurred the details but made the moisture in her eyes even more striking.
"Remember that, Sheila."
Her lips moved slightly. She softly hummed in response.
The car fell quiet again.
Just when I thought she'd continue in silence, she suddenly turned, meeting my gaze without evasion.
