Page 2 of Claimed By the Mobster
What would it be like to be touched by his hands? So strong and big.
“Do you mind my asking what happened?” His voice is a calm rumble, and though he couched it as a question, it’s not. It’s a command.
I guess he’s used to not having to ask twice.
Mr Crosse is a huge deal. Country girl that I am, I didn’t know anything about the London mafias when I was going out with Tom, and when he told me his dad was the kingpin of Westminster, I scoffed. Ridiculous.
Not ridiculous, as it turns out. My mafia-obsessed housemates have been swooning over Westminster, the most influential of the London mafias, as well as giggling about the Bratva. Even I’ve seen photos in the gossip magazines of mafia bosses. And if I looked a bit longer at the ones with Benedict Crosse in them… I’m only human, alright? A virgin, not a pot plant.
And if I had any options, I’d be literally anywhere else.
The truth is, he’s still the only person I know in this city. I assumed a lifetime of being a scholarship student at a posh boarding school had prepared me for university, but it didn’t.
I’m shy, I guess. I don’t know how to make friends, and have no family. None alive who want me, anyway. My aunt and uncle were happy enough to ship me to boarding school and there was never a good time for me to see them, so I stayed there for holidays too. Until Tom asked me to be his girlfriend, and I finally had somewhere to go. I thought being in London would force me to be more outgoing, but it’s all so expensive. I’m left working shifts at a coffee shop and falling into bed having done nothing but work and study.
“I have to get some sleep tonight. I’ll lose my bursary if I don’t.”
He doesn’t say anything and his excessive patience is in big black capital letters. MR CROSSE IS WAITING.
I curse myself. I had this all worked out logically, but seeing him has me out of whack. “I share a student house with five girls. It’s in Whitechapel and it’s really cheap.”
Nope. Still not making any sense.
“Five. And currently, around forty of their closest friends and more bottles of vodka than I’ve ever seen in my life.”
A huge Sunday night party I first heard about when the music was turned up at eight. Two hours later, I was about ready to tear my hair out. I know by now that there’s no point in asking them to keep it down.
“I tried to stop it, but…” No one in that house listens to me. When I switched the music off I got elbowed out of the way and shouted out of the room. I called the police, but they said they couldn’t do anything.
Last night they had a massive party too, and if I’m not on my A-game tomorrow, I’ll be kicked off my scholarship, and so the end of going to university. Two years of work and student loans wasted. That means I won’t have my dream job of being a plant geneticist and I’ll probably be working in the Lazy Bean coffee shop until I’m eighty.
You know, I should have gone with that. It would be better than Mr Crosse’s look of polite confusion.
Or I could have opted for the slightly less apocalyptic choice of getting a hotel room. But I did that yesterday, and last Saturday, and payday isn’t until next week. I’m more terrified of debt and failure than I am of severe Mr Crosse and the feelings he evokes in me.
I am.
Probably.
Scary mobster or not, I’m out of options.
“I have an exam tomorrow. If I don’t get any sleep tonight, I’ll definitely fail.”
“Mmm,” he says, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I’ll find you alternative accommodation.”
“There’s no need,” I rush to assure him. I cannot afford to get a new place. The landlord will take my deposit and the whole year of rent, and I’m broke enough as it is. “I just have to have somewhere for tonight. The house is usually fine.”
He stares me down. “Evidently not.”
“Except for the parties,” I concede. And that most of my housemates loathe me. But lalalala, let’s ignore that since I can’t do anything about it. The rent is super cheap.
He scowls and runs his fingers around the rim of his glass.
Lucky glass.
I lick my lips and remind myself that lusting after your ex’s dad is not the behaviour of good girls who study hard and have successful careers studying plants.
Mr Crosse—Benedict Crosse the gossipy article said, and I obviously cannot allow myself to think of this gorgeous man as anything as intimate as just his first name—folds his arms over his chest and looks into the fire. He glances back at me and for a second I’m sure it’s an admiring look, speculative, yes, but not in the “what am I going to do with her” way. More, “what wouldn’t I like to do to her”.
