Page 27 of Claimed By the Villain
This isn’t the Lucifer I know.
Back when we spent time together—when I was a child, and later a teenager—he was incapable of getting close to anything resembling feelings or emotion. Even his kind of care was cold and hardened.
“I’m fine. Even though I still don’t understand what you could possibly want to talk to me about. I thought I’d already thanked you for saving Taylor.”
“This isn’t about her. It’s about us.”
“There’s an us?”
“Have dinner with me tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Food,”he says calmly, like he’s explaining it to a child—which only pisses me off more.
“I understood. I just don’t know how to respond to that.”
“Yes or no, Jackie.”
“You haven’t spoken to me or looked for me since you left my house, the only time we’d seen each other in years. And before that night, when you went searching for my friend and brought her back, the only time you made contact was by phone. Honestly, even when I lost my family, you only got close enough for me to know you were there—at Mom’s funeral, and then Martin’s. Now you invite me to dinner and expect me not to be shocked?”
“You’re right. And still, I want you to come.”
I want to tell him to go to hell for making me wait for him all this time, even though I know Lucifer never actually gave me hope.
I want to tell him he doesn’t have the right to show up now that I’ve decided to move on.
But I can’t.
“I’ll come.”
He pauses, and I hold my breath, expecting him to take it back. But instead, he says:
“Someone will pick you up. Eight o’clock. Tomorrow.”
Chapter 14
New Orleans
I hang up the phone, wondering if I might’ve miscalculated the risks of what I’m about to propose to her.
I was counting on how Jackie reacted to me that night I made her come against her living room wall. There’s no denying the explosive chemistry between us, so, in my arrogance, I believed she’d be eager when I asked her to dinner.
Instead, she sounded hesitant. What the hell is going on?
I return to the room where I’ve spent most of the night meeting with the former Pakhan of the Russian mafia, Ruslan Vassiliev, and Beau.
If this were a Hollywood action flick, we’d be in some dimly lit, crumbling warehouse right now, surrounded by guys with mean looks and dangerous vibes.
But our meeting is taking place in a spacious, airy, and luxurious mansion in New Orleans. The two men sitting with me could easily pass for someone’s grandfather and husband.They look successful. They speak with elegance. And that’s exactly what makes them so dangerous—their ability to blend into society.
“You could come work for us permanently,” Ruslan suggests as soon as I sit down with them in Beau’s library.
I was expecting the offer. I saw it coming ever since I took care of that pedophile journalist for them over two years ago.
“No offense, Pakhan, but aside from having no interest in being someone’s subordinate, joining your Brotherhood would put an even bigger target on my back.”
“Because you’ve done jobs for other organizations,” he says.
