Page 32 of Ruthless Saint

“People talk,” I say, biting my lip.

“Melissa,” he says, rubbing his chin, his shoulders dropping down as he exhales. “She’s too chatty for her own good.”

“It’s not like she told me anything I wouldn’t have figured out by myself.” I rush to her defense. “Come on, you drive a Maserati, carry a gun, own a casino and probably half this town, and you live in a high security mansion overlooking the whole thing. Let’s not forget the tailored Italian suits and that most of the town is afraid of you enough toturn away a perfectly good potential employee because you told them to. If those aren’t the signs of someone at the top of an organised crime food chain, then I’m the real Stevie Nicks. The only thing that’s missing is tons of drugs.”

“There are no drugs in Blackwood,” he growls.

I open my mouth but at the same time the door opens and Angelo walks in, his eyes bouncing between Dante and me, his eyebrow arching as he assesses my current outfit.

“I’ve got what you asked for.” He sounds pissed as he throws a bag at his brother’s chest.

“Thanks.” Dante catches it without an issue, then walks over to me.

When I raise my eyebrow, he holds the bag in front of him, waiting for me to take it. Holding his suit jacket together with one hand, I sneak the other out and grab it.

“Go change.”

I’m on the verge of protesting, telling him he can’t tell me what to do, but he’s my boss and he totally can. Plus Angelo beats me to it.

“I’m not yourfattorino1, Saint.”

“Of course you aren’t my errand boy,” Dante replies, as I push open the door to the laundry room, annoyed that neither one of them thought they should move their conversation outside so I can change in peace.

“I don’t get it, Dante. What’s so special abouther?” The words reach me just as the door closes behind me. I have the biggest urge to press my face against the wood and see if I can make out the rest of that conversation because I’m in the exact same camp Angelo is. I’d give my pinky finger to find out why the hell Dante changed his mind about me so abruptly, especially since he was adamant he wanted me gone.

But I resist the urge, mostly because I wouldn’t be able to make anything out over the noise the tumble dryer ismaking, and open the bag in my hand. I don’t know what I was expecting to find in there. A clean uniform maybe? Definitely not black skinny jeans and a silk white blouse from Prada. And most definitely not a matching black lace bra and panties set from La Perla, all still with tags on. The prices on the tags are giving me heart palpitations. The lingerie alone is worth more than two months’ rent at the last place I stayed in. This is too much. My survival instinct kicks in, making me wonder what I’ll be required to do in return. Because theyalwayswant something.

I briefly consider taking my clothes out of the dryer and putting them back on even if they’re still wet, but then think better of it. There were no female bartenders behind the bar, and Benji was wearing a white shirt and black trousers combo, so this, minus the bra and panties, might actually be the uniform. I decide not to look a gift horse in the mouth and just put everything on. When will I ever have a chance to wear anything this expensive again after all? Of course, the silk blouse is so thin you can clearly see the lacy black bra under. I’d take it off if I weren’t certain without it, everyone would be able to see my nipples.

Dressed and barefoot, I take Dante’s jacket and slip it on, rolling the sleeves up and pushing them to my elbows. His intoxicating cologne invades my senses and if I had any less control, I’d be lifting the collar to sniff it like a grade-A horn dog.

When I come back out, Angelo is gone while Dante is tapping away on his phone, probably playing Candy Crush and only pretending he’s taking care of business.

“How did you know my size?” I ask the question that’s been burning a hole in my mind.

He lifts his eyes, giving me a once over, a small smirk gracing his handsome face. “I guessed.”

I narrow my eyes, wracking my brain. I don’t believehim. There’s no chance he’d be able to guess a jeans size down to the leg length in inches. No one isthatgood. I want to punch his pretty face and wipe that smirk right off, because the look he has every time I see it, says he thinks he’s way better than everyone else. Obviously, I’m not going to punch him, though. As much as he might be okay with having me around now, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t hesitate to rip my arm out for something like that.

“Doubtful.”

He shrugs one shoulder, then turns around and walks out, throwing, “Come on,” at me over his shoulder.

As we walk down the carpet covered corridors, it suddenly clicks. “You got all the measurements from my file!” I exclaim as he stops in front of his office door.

“I did?” He pushes the door open.

“It’s the only reasonable explanation. I gave Martina all my measurements.” I smile at my absolute genius as I cross the threshold and follow him inside. “All except for shoe size, because dancers are dancing barefoot.”

“Were,” he mutters, turning around, his gaze landing on my feet. “For fuck’s sake, you’re not wearing shoes.”

“Observant, are we?”

“What’s your shoe size, then?”

“Seven. Anyway, why are we here? Shouldn’t I be getting ready for my shift?”

He stops the tapping on his phone, an eyebrow raised. “You are.”

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