Page 24 of Scorned Beauty
“It’ll do for now.”
“Or you can give me a key.”
“We’re not at that stage yet.” She checked her phone and cursed. “Okay gotta go…I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”
I jumped out of the bed to at least cop a feel of her ass, but Ginger ran in front of me and I nearly tripped over her.
Damn cat.
The door slammed.
I’ll see you when I see you.
That was my line. No-strings-attached arrangements were my forte but for some reason I didn’t like it when I wasn’t in control. Sloane’s aversion to relationships was equal to mine. I might even say it was even more. I should consider myself lucky and roll with it.
I glared at Ginger. The cat appeared extremely pleased that she thwarted my attempt to catch Sloane. “You and I need to come to an understanding,” I told her while returning to the bedroom and stabbing my legs into a pair of athletic shorts. “You don’t get between me and Sloane. Got it?”
The cat’s answer was to whip her tail up and down before giving me a view of her rump while walking away.
“I’m talking to you, dammit.”
Was I arguing with a cat? Me? Dominic De Lucci. The boss of the De Lucci crime family had been reduced to feline ridicule.
When I made sure there was a barrier between my testicles and her claws, I headed to the coffee machine in the kitchen to pour myself a mug of brew. Ginger had positioned herself along the back of the couch, lying down with her paws folded in front of her.
“Why don’t you go chase rats somewhere?” Never had I paid attention to anyone’s house animals. They served their purpose of sitting pretty, being appropriately groomed, and looking like part of the decor. Obviously, outside the pampered pets of Fifth Avenue and Manhattan’s elites, there existed a feral variety with obnoxious behavior.
“I paid for that premium tuna, just so you know.”
No response. No meows or hisses. Just silent, judgy eyes.
So far, she hadn’t cockblocked me from Sloane and was surprisingly absent during our energetic bouts of sex. My phone buzzed on top of the kitchen counter and I winced. I had set a do-not-disturb feature and it finally expired at nine a.m. Monday morning.
Back to reality.
I walkedinto the grand foyer of my Hudson Yards penthouse. Soaring ceilings and arched windows, the vastness of its interior and blinding light, were a far cry from the cozy two days I spent holed up at Sloane’s. The main dining area and eat-in kitchen alone were bigger than her apartment. While my residence comprised of five bedrooms, a den, five full baths, two half baths, and an elegant sweeping staircase to the second floor and third-level roof landing, I also had an abundance of outdoor space across three floors.
Yet I lived alone. De Lucci Transnational was a big player in the real estate market both in the US and abroad, and when this penthouse came on the market, Matteo told me it was a steal at twenty-five million.
I never, not once in the four years that I’d owned this place, brought a woman here. It was my sacred place. I hadn’thad a girlfriend since college. For a few years after I became boss, I enjoyed hookups with mafia groupies and socialites who loved living dangerously, but it only took one failed paternity suit to reevaluate my approach to sex. I became more cautious, and more selective, and always used my own condoms. My sex life became secretive and the tabloid that followed the mafia exploded into speculations. One time they even wondered if I switched teams and was gay. It took one date with a popular socialite to dispel that rumor.
I showered and changed into sweatpants and headed to my den to join a web meeting with De Lucci Transnational. Matteo and Nico usually tag-teamed on that. I was merely a figurehead because the things I did for the company were best discussed face to face.
As the meeting droned on, my mind drifted to how I managed to avoid the overzealousManhattan Tattlerfrom discovering who I was sleeping with. Recently it was because I was test-driving a dating app for the rich. Developed by a friend from college, the app ran on the dark web. Several luxury apartment buildings were scattered around Manhattan and were used as a rendezvous for sex-only hookups between the rich and rich. Individuals who prefer not to use an escort service and risk exposure. A carefully curated membership included an intense background check with a minimum net worth of thirty million dollars. There was even an anonymous rating system to keep egos in check and ensure continued membership. No money was exchanged beyond the membership fees and use of the opulent suite for the tryst.
A message came over my phone from the concierge of the building. “Sir, your mother and cousin are on their way up.”
Fuck.
I texted Matteo who was leading the video call.
Me
Is your wife on her way to ambush me along with my mother?
Matteo
Serves you right. Where were you this weekend?
