Page 72 of Wicked Sinner
“Enough,” he growls. “Tristan, we’ll discuss what this means between us. Caesar, you’re dismissed. I’ll talk to you later, when I’ve had time to decide?—”
I cut him off. It’s a dangerous thing to do, but I’ve had enough of being talked down to, enough of being treated likea child when I’m a grown man—a man who’s fought and shed blood and killed, done things while I was away that they clearly don’t believe I’m capable of.
I push my chair back, standing to my feet. “I want to be very clear. I am claiming my father’s territory, his businesses, and his legacy. I am the new Don Genovese in Miami. I make the decisions for my family, my territory, and my life. And I've chosen Bridget. That's how it's going to be."
Konstantin stands too, his icy eyes hard with anger, but I turn on my heel, striding out of the office. I half-expect him to send his men to drag me back in, but he lets me go, likely because he hasn’t decided yet what exactly he wants to do about this.
I don’t fucking care. In the back of my head, I know giving Konstantin Abramov a reason to declare war on the Genovese name is the most dangerous thing I could do, but I’m tired of being manipulated. I’m tired of the politics.
I didn’t come back to sit in meetings and play their games. I came back to prove that I can take what my father left behind, whether he thought so or not.
His name is mine. His wealth is mine. His empire is mine.
And now Bridget is mine, too—at least for now.
Halfway home, I notice the same pair of headlights has been following me since I left Konstantin's. When I take an unnecessary turn, they follow. When I speed up, they match my pace.
Someone is tailing me.
Again.
I think about the attack on Bridget, my jaw clenching, about how those gunmen at the gas station were clearly professionals. About the fact that Tristan was late to that meeting, and his response when I showed up to his house.
My teeth grind together as I take another turn, then another, leading my tail through the winding streets of downtown Miami. They're good, keeping enough distance that someone else might not notice, switching lanes to try to make me think they’re not following. But I'm better.
I make a sudden right into a parking garage, tires squealing against the concrete as I gun it up the spiral ramp. The car speeds past, and I head further up the garage, reaching for the gun in the passenger seat in case they circle back and follow me. But there’s no sign of them by the time I reach the top, and as I head back down, I don’t pass a car that looks like the one following me.
They must have given up, for now.
I let out a heavy breath, taking the long way back to the penthouse in case they try to pick up my trail again. By the time I get home, it’s nearly four, and I’m exhausted.
The penthouse is quiet when I walk inside, all the lights dimmed except for the soft glow coming from the kitchen. I notice that the sliding door to the balcony is open, letting in the pleasantly warm breeze from an October Miami afternoon. Curious, I step outside and head up the stairs to the rooftop, spying her instantly as soon as I step up onto it.
She's in the hot tub.
The sight of her stops me dead in my tracks. She's leaning against the far edge with her back to me, honey-blonde hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, bare shoulders gleaming wet in the sunlight. The hot tub is built into the corner of the balcony, overlooking the city lights.
I should announce myself, let her know I'm here. Instead, I find myself frozen, drinking in the sight of her.
She must sense my presence because she turns around, and I get a full view of the black bikini that's barely covering her. The top is simple, just two triangles of fabric held together by thinstrings, but it showcases her breasts perfectly. Water droplets cling to her skin, and her cheeks are flushed from the heat.
I’m instantly hard, my cock stiffening so fast it makes me dizzy. I can’t move. If I do, I’m going to end up in that hot tub with her, and more than that, I’m going to end up inside of her.
I don’t know how much longer I can take this.
"Caesar." Her voice is slightly breathless, whether from surprise or something else. "I didn't hear you come up."
"Sorry." I clear my throat, trying to get my voice under control. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not interrupting. This is your place." She settles back against the edge of the tub, but her eyes never leave mine. "Where did you go off to?"
I swallow hard, trying to force myself to look at her eyes and not her breasts. “I had a meeting with Konstantin.” A look of confusion crosses her face, and I quickly explain: “He’s the leader of the Russian faction here.”
“Ah.” She tilts her head back, and I see a droplet of something—water or sweat—slide down her throat. My mouth feels dry with the desire to lick it off her skin. “How did he like the news?”
“He didn’t,” I tell her honestly. “He wanted me to marry someone he chose.”
“The wife you talked about when you asked me to be your mistress.” Her voice sharpens, and I let out a breath.
