Page 3 of Big Bad Wolf

That’s my idea of a perfect evening.

Italian voices float overhead—angry whispers from would-be mafiosos, sweet nothings from lovers, and family gossip exchanged between elderly sisters who haven’t seen one another in years. Their banter amuses me, but the aroma of marinara is making my stomach growl and affecting my mood.

I recheck my watch, then slap my wrist, scolding myself for my impatience. We budgeted two and a half hours for dinner, and there’s plenty of time to spare.

I peruse the menu again, wondering if I should select a different dish than usual, then decide not to mess with perfection. I’m so engrossed, I don’t notice the hostess seating an elegantly dressed man behind me until he pulls out his chair and scrapes the legs against the tiles.

His husky voice makes my ears perk. It’s unfamiliar, but something about it makes me inexplicably tense. It’s rough, masculine, and brutish, but his manners are impeccable. The contrast makes me want to see his face, but I don’t want to be a snoop. When the girls arrive, I’ll make a beeline to the bathroom and get a quick look on my way. If only I wasn’t such an impatient person.

With my curiosity piqued, I take a subtle glance over my shoulder and peek under my lashes, fixated by his huge hands tearing into a piece of focaccia bread. He’s a breathtaking specimen of brutish masculinity, but something’s off. I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him more than once.

My eyes widen, then narrow with suspicion, focusing on his gorgeous face. No woman could forget his thick dark hair, pale-green eyes, and the sculpted cheekbones slightly disguised beneath a thin layer of overgrown scruff.

Does he work for my father? The movement of his chiseled jaw and full lips makes my skin heat and my insides tingle with need. He resembles a man I bumped into at a coffeehouse last week. That man wore sunglasses, but I recognize the sharp angles of his face. And that man reminded me of the man who sat across from me on the subway in late summer. New York is a big town, and people eventually become a blur. Yet some faces are too striking to forget.

The strange man lifts his glass to wash down his bread, and his eyes flash to mine. The corner of his mouth tips into a wicked grin, and I turn away, spooked by the intensity of his stare. My skin prickles with premonition, but I set those feelings aside and return my attention to the door, hoping Sybil and Tasha will walk through any second and save me from doing something regrettable.

What in the world is taking them so long? I’ve never been a worrier. There’s never any need. Sybil has enough anxiety for both of us. If there are any concerns, she handles them beforehand and only brings me into the loop when the problem is solved. If she vows to be anywhere on time, then only a major accident or death could make her break her promise.

Something terrible must have happened. An accident? Oh, no!

Alarming thoughts of Sybil and Tasha’s bloodied bodies littering Fifth Avenue flood my frazzled brain, and my arm instinctively shoots into the air, signaling the server to bring me the check. I toss money on the table and swipe my purse from the designated empty chair. My girls need me, and I won’t let them down.

“You’re not leaving so soon, are you?” The devastatingly handsome man appears before me, speaking while he removes his couture jacket and hangs it on the back of the chair. He rolls his sleeves, revealing his sinewy forearms etched with intricate black and red ink. Before I respond, he settles into the chair across me and leans forward to say, “Sybil and Tasha are fine. They’ll be here soon.”

I lift my gaze and stare at him from behind the menu, too confused to ask why he’d presume to sit at my table. “What did you say? How do you know my friends?” I stammer, my eyes widening as I take every inch of him in. He’s breathtaking—the personification of temptation. As a waiter approaches, I drop the menu and bow my head, my voice trembling as I complete my thought. “Do you work for my father?”

The strange man shakes his head once and extends his enormous hand across the table. I stare at the tattoos on his knuckles and swallow hard when my lustful gaze lands on the wolf tattoo on the back of his hand. I’m unsure what it means, but I’ve seen it before. He’s not Italian, notCosa Nostra, but I’d bet my brand-new Louboutins that he’s a criminal.

When I don’t shake his hand, he places his giant mitt over mine, still glued to the table, and clasps it, forcing me to accept his greeting. “You don’t want to be rude. We’ve only just met.”

My jaw drops as he turns to the server and clears his throat, ordering an entire bottle of their best Chianti, like he plans to stay. With a sheepish grin, he places both elbows on the table and leans forward to whisper, “Scarlett Rossi, my name is Vasily Volkov, but you can call me Vas.”

ChapterThree

My jaw drops as my mind snaps with instant recognition. “Vas Volkov?” I search the corners of my mind for the correct reference and jolt back with surprise. “Didn’t you beat up Bruno Corvo? You gave him a concussion. Why would you do something like that?” I scold, immediately defending my friend, a man I’ve known since childhood and can only describe as a giant teddy bear—at least compared to other bloodthirsty criminals.

Vas shakes his head once and steals my goblet, drinking half my Chianti in one gulp. “No, that was my cousin, Bogdan. I’m the one who broke Massimo de Luca’s ribs.”

“Oh. I heard about that.” My expression softens with understanding. I won’t judge him for attacking Massimo. There’s little doubt he deserved it. He lives to antagonize anyone in his path. “Why would your cousin attack Bruno? What did he do to him?”

“It was a personal thing involving a woman, and Bruno had it coming. I didn’t involve myself in that drama. Besides, what’s it to you?” His thick eyebrows furrow into his brow as anger twists his perfect features. Oddly enough, rage only enhances his beauty.

I feel mental. Bad boys have never been my thing.

“Bruno is a friend,” I offer clarification he hasn’t earned. Since when do I explain myself to strangers?

“What kind of friend?” He leans forward and places his elbows on the checkerboard tablecloth.

I release an audible gasp, stunned by his audacity. As I gather the words to give him a verbal thrashing, my brain rewinds and skids to a crashing halt. “Hey, wait a minute. How do you know my friends’ names? And what are you doing here? What do you want? Have you been following me?” Questions pour out one after another without pausing for his answer. I’m not sure I expect honesty, but I’d like him to explain why he feels entitled to sit at my table.

Vas shrugs, exhaling loudly as he folds his arms over his broad chest. His dark, full lips move slightly, considering every word or perhaps coming up with a lie. His pale-green eyes glimmer while he takes me in, roaming freely, like he wants to memorize every inch.

I feel naked—undressed and ravished by his seductive gaze. As my nipples tighten, I hug my chest, afraid this strange man will think he’s aroused me.

There must be a draft in here.

“I asked my people to keep your friends busy, hoping it would give us a chance to meet,” he states matter-of-factly, leaning forward and clasping his hands in front of him like a man on the verge of major negotiations. “But they could only hold them off for so long. I just received word they’ve taken matters into their own hands. They’ll be here any minute.” Vasily stands and slips his muscular arms through the sleeves of his finely tailored jacket. It must be tailored. With those biceps, I don’t think he could buy something off the rack.

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