Page 3 of Vicious Heir

I can’t think about any of that right now. Not when she’s so close. Not when I should be plotting an escape rather than daydreaming about shit I haven’t been able to change.

Yet.

I zero back in on the situation in front of me, and at first, I think maybe the asshole actually thought of her. Perhaps he brought her lunch since she’s been cooped up in her shop all day. But then he opens his pretty-boy mouth, and I realize it’s just his leftovers.

Symbolic.

That’s all she probably ever gets of the bastard.

“Thanks, babe! See ya’ at home!” Enzo calls out as the men leave, and I want to throat punch him.

He won’t be home later. He’s been spending his Tuesday nights at one of my nightclubs, and it’s how we cornered him in the first place. Gabriel Amato caught him trying to do some shady shit with my dancers. He claimed he was on our territory because he didn’t want his family to know he was paying for women to fuck.

The DeSantis men don’t take kindly to their men cheating on their women—it’s pretty standard for most men in this life, but that family is on a whole other level of holy.

Enzo was on our territory, so we had every right to hold him until he talked. Turns out he was fucking our women in the backrooms and refusing to pay them after, too. It’s almost as if he was begging to be caught.

That’s why I’m not as sure as my father is about trusting the greedy asshole. I don’t buy the fact that he’s going to turn on his family. For what? Money and some free fucks? He’s risking a lot, and I’m not seeing much of a reward in his favor.

I consider my thoughts as I flip through a different book, my head downcast but my eyes still glued on her.

I’d actually enjoy slitting pretty boy Greco’s throat from ear to ear, but even a throat punch would relieve a bit of this tension festering inside my bones.

Evelina sits down behind the counter, gathers her long, white-blonde locks, and piles it on top of her head. Fractions of light splinter in through the blinds and cast golden hues on her fair skin. Each time she moves, swaying to some song I don’t know that’s streaming from the speakers, the rays kiss her skin. The light dances along with her, making love to her in a way I ache to.

I’m lost in her movements, my cock growing hard as I watch her justbe. Suddenly, she stops and takes a deep breath, and before I can look away, she turns her eyes in my direction.

But it isn’t me she’s looking at. She’s looking at the man one aisle over.

“You okay back there, sir?” She smiles at whatever the fuck his name is, and he nods. “Closing up shop in ten minutes.” Another smile.

I gulp down my incessant want for her and adjust my cock in my pants so it’s less obvious that I’m walking around her building with nine inches of rock-solid muscle begging to come out and play.

With her.

The man chooses some fucking history book and then pays and leaves. He’s not a threat. The old bastard probably can’t even find his cock anymore.

I decide that today is as good a time as any to speak to her. Honestly, I’m not sure how I can go much longer without seeing her acknowledge me. I’m a selfish bastard, and I want her attention even if I know I shouldn’t have it.

You ruin beautiful things.

My mind is a fucking war zone of gruesome memories as I walk toward where she stands behind the register. I gently set the used book down and slide it toward her. When her eyes come up to meet mine, it’s like a fucking bomb detonates in my chest. Having those pretty green orbs focused on me is almost more than I can fucking handle.

“Afternoon,” she says, and how the fuck does one word from her lips sound like a fucking melodic masterpiece? She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and looks down at the book I’ve chosen. “Persuasion,” she muses. “You don’t strike me as a Jane Austen type of man.”

She looks me up and down, and I wish I could read her mind in the worst fucking way.

“What is it that you book people say?” I mock forgetfulness. “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

She smiles a smile I’ve grown to be so infatuated with it almost hurts. Damn my fucking obsessive brain.

“What type of books do I look like I enjoy?” I ask.

She makes a show of shaking her head as she rings me up, and I hand her cash to cover it. “Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”

I nod and take the book before she can bag it, turning toward the door.

“Hey!” she calls out, and I stop in my tracks.

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