Page 96 of Dirty Mafia King
I hesitate, and ignore the warning bells blaring in my head.Keep walking. Don’t be foolish. What if he confronts you about the other night?
Temptation guides my actions, and I steal a peek inside.
He’sthere.Alone. Typing away on his laptop with an intense expression.
Lord knows, he’s easy on the eyes. His suit jacket’s hung over the back of his chair. Sleeves rolled up to expose big firm forearms. Tie loose and shirt unbuttoned. He’s tan. He’s sexy, even while working.
The chill against my chest reminds me of our first encounter. Him, plucking an ice cube from the bucket and popping it into his mouth. Me, not knowing where to look or what to do, yet so insanely attracted to him.
The things he could teach me.
The things I yearn to experience with him.
Bastian grunts, rolls back in his seat, and glares at his laptop. Heavy is the mafioso crown he wears.
He’s sexy without even trying to be. Pure, unadulterated male…
“What the hell are you doing?”
Sandro’s growl makes me jump and nearly drop the bottles. He stares at me, then at the open door. Eyes narrowing, he grabs my elbow and steers me down the hallway.
He waits until we reach the kitchen before going off on me. “Why are you spying on my father?”
My cheeks warm. “I wasn’t…”
He gets in my face. “You were. I caught you, so don’t deny it.”
“I wanted to … ask his permission,” I stutter, “…to use the vodka from the bar.” I hug the bottles to my chest, as if they’ll protect me from further attack.
“What did you hear?”
“Nothing. He was working at his desk.”
He runs his fingers through his hair. If his temper weren’t so ugly, he’d be attractive. “Even my father believes your innocent act, isn’t that right?”
No. But it doesn’t make a difference, does it?I stiffen. “Maybe he’s more perceptive than you?”
Sandro slams a fist into the wall behind my head. “Or maybe you’ve mastered the art of manipulation.”
“Let me go.”
“Too late for that.” Yet he drops his arm and steps back. “You couldn’t leave things as they were,” he grinds out through clenched teeth. “Why’d you do it?”
“I told you. I’m baking pies and needed vodka—”
“Not that. Why’d you push him into demanding we set a date?”
“A date for what?” I mimic the condemnation in his tone.
His laugh is downright sinister. “Our goddamn wedding date.”
I rear back. “What?”
“The plan was to delay things indefinitely. But he’s snapped, and it’s all he can talk about.”
My face pales. “No.”
“Yes.” He locks eyes with me. “The question is why?”
