Page 21 of Bitter Prince
I ignored her last jab. It was in her best interest to think that. “Why isn’t your sister with you?”
“She doesn’t like to do yoga. Besides, what’s it to you?”
“You’re underage,” I said, keeping my tone even. The old Romero really danced to his mother-in-law’s tune, who insisted on her granddaughters’ independence. The old dragon married some duke a few years back and now lived in the UK. I wondered if Tomaso had any say in his daughters’ upbringing at all.
Reina’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “I’m almost eighteen.”
“Exactly.”
She blew a frustrated breath. “Why am I even arguing this bullshit with you? You just killed a man. My age really doesn’t matter. You should worry about your own, because you’ll surely be spending a long time in a French prison.”
“Only if you tell someone what you saw tonight.” I took a step toward her, closing the distance between us. I didn’t need to glare or scowl to instill fear in those who challenged me. “And you won’t be doing that, will you?”
She knew if she talked, the chances of her survival—regardless of who her father was—were slim to none, so her next move surprised me. She slipped out of my grasp and darted for the elevator, leaving me in the dust.
I quickly gathered my wits and went after her, yanking her back by her arm. She opened her mouth to scream, but my hand shot out to cover it, muffling any sound.
“Reina, stop it,” I warned. She bit into my palm and I let out a string of curses in both Italian and Japanese. It wasn’t until I spoke in my mother’s tongue that she stilled. I felt her tongue against my palm, hot and wet, and something about it had my dick stirring.
Goddamn it. She was underage—I needed to get my shit together.
“I won’t scream.” Her voice came out muffled. “Promise.” My eyebrow rose and I slowly removed my hand from her soft lips. “You speak Japanese?” She seemed earnestly surprised.
“I do,” I confirmed.
“Who taught you?” My jaw tightened as venom crawled through my veins.
“My mother.” My voice came out sharp, like the lash of a whip. Her crystal blue eyes widened, looking at me as if I had really hurt her. “Since you already know that my father’s Italian, it would only make sense for my mother to be Japanese,” I added.
“You don’t have to be all snippy about it,” she murmured. “I was just curious. I don’t know much about you.”
The underworld was a gossip arena. Everyone talked about everything, and I knew the shit about my illegitimate birth and ties to the Yakuza were the talk of the Omertà. Reina’s father, being a member of the organization, surely spoke about it too. Yet the way this odd interaction was playing out told me otherwise.
“Well, now you know.” My hand still hovered over her mouth. She brought her own hand to mine, her fingers curling over it. Small, dainty fingers, clear of any nail polish. “Anything else you’d like to question me about?”
She tilted her head, studying me. Unabashedly. Unafraid. Despite her seeing me kill a man. And something told me it wasn’t the first time she’d seen death. In fact, I’d stake my life on it.
I’d watched her from afar ever since we crossed paths again three years ago. Something about her had intrigued me ever since I was a young boy.
Reina’s full lips curved into a soft smile.
“That’s it for now.” She stepped forward, her chest brushing against mine, watching me with an innocent expression. A wave of warmth ran down my spine as her scent hit me. “I think that’s so cool. Exotic.”Exotic.I wondered if it was her roundabout way of referring to my illegitimate heritage—my father never marrying my mother. My mixed racial background. Or if she was simply making an observation.
My eyes traveled over her. She wore jean shorts that exposed her legs and that soft, flawless skin, hot-pink shoes and a pink T-shirt. I knew Reina Romero liked her luxury and had plenty of money to support her habit. Not only from her papà, but also from her mother’s side and her wealthy grandmother—both Hollywood legends.
“You shouldn’t be roaming the streets alone, Reina,” I told her again.
“And you shouldn’t kill people, Amon,” she scolded softly.
Normally, it would piss me off if anyone told me what to do. But with her, I just shrugged, watching her cross her legs as she leaned against the wall. Her soft, curvy body didn’t escape me, but she was still a girl.
Underage, I reminded myself. And it didn’t matter if she was of age, because she’d never be mine. Italian fathers wanted purebred Italians for their daughters, not illegitimate sons of mixed racial descent. The bitter prince, never a king.
“If you want, we can have dinner after my yoga class,” she offered. “And maybe you can tell me why you did it.”
And that was how curiosity killed the cat.
13
