Page 78 of Cruel Heir

I don’t really know what to expect. I step in between the two guards, pushing the door open, and step into a room that smells of leather and sandalwood.

I see immediately that it’s an open floor plan, one huge space walled in on three sides by nothing but glass windows, letting the lights from the city flood in and add to the illumination of the space. On the left, there’s a modern kitchen that’s all gleaming stainless steel and black granite, cleaned so impeccably that I’d bet I could see my reflection in the countertops. There’s a half-moon bar with the same black granite separating the kitchen from the rest of the space, with industrial-style barstools in front of it, and antique brass shelving on the opposite wall with liquor bottles and crystal glasses. In front of me is a sprawling living room with long dark leather couches and anindustrial-style coffee table with a neat stack of books on one end, set in the center of a thick tufted rug. There’s a long table near one of the windows with an antique record player on it, piping out mellow music that fills the space, and I see an iron staircase that leads up to the second floor.

At the far end of the room, his back to me as he looks out of the window, is a dark-haired man. He’s wearing what I assume must be casual clothes to him–dark grey chinos tailored so perfectly that I can’t miss the curve of his firm ass, and a fitted black button-down with the sleeves rolled up that highlights the lean musculature of his back and upper arms. He doesn’t move, as if he didn’t hear me come in, and I clear my throat with muted annoyance, setting down my equipment bag with athud.

There’s a brief pause, and then the man turns to face me.

My first thought is that he’s incredibly gorgeous. Thick dark hair expertly cut, a shadow of stubble on his chiseled jaw, that perfect muscled body under the fitted clothing, and sharp green eyes that fix squarely on me the moment he turns to look. But that’s hardly unusual here. Especially in this area, a person could trip over five supermodels before they walk a block. Still, there’s something arresting about him–a certain presence that could be arrogance, but I’m not certain that it is. I’m not sure what to make of him.

The man presses his lips together–full soft-looking lips, I notice, much to my own annoyance–and looks at me curiously.

“You’remy tattoo artist? Not what I was expecting, when Axton said he was sick and sending someone to cover for him.” A perturbed expression crosses his face. “I put the deposit for this down months ago.”

I’m hardly Rico’s biggest fan, but I feel a flash of irritation. “It’s not as if he got the flu on purpose to inconvenience you,” I tell him tartly.

His mouth twitches at the corners, as if I’ve amused him. “I’m sure he didn’t. And you are?”

“Emma Garcia. I apologize for being late–” I force the words out despite my resistance to apologize to this man foranything. “--and Iassure you, I’m more than capable of handling whatever it is that you wanted Rico to do for you–”

“I’m sure you are.” His voice is deceptively mild, but I’m pretty sure I catch a hint of disbelief. It’s nothing new–we get walkins to the Night Orchid all the time who don’t believe a woman can be a capable tattoo artist–but it pisses me off all the same. I’ve spent my career in a male-dominated field, ignoring catcalls and lewd remarks and disparaging commentary from peers and clients alike, until I got to a position where I could tell some of them to fuck off.

I can’t tell this man to fuck off, though. I have a feeling he’d simply have me thrown out of his building, and then I’d be out of a job as soon as Rico heard about it.

He smiles, displaying perfect white teeth, as perfect as the rest of him. “My apologies,” he says smoothly. “I’ve been terribly rude in not introducing myself. I’m Dante Campano.”

Campano.

Everything around me slows for a moment, my pulse picking up with a sudden nervous staccato as I recognize the name, and wonder if it might not be worth the risk to my job to simply turn around and leave. The overwhelming security presence, and their attitude, suddenly makes chilling sense.

This client isn’t a celebrity or a businessman or an athlete.

He’s a mafia boss.

ChapterTwo

Dante

The woman who walks into my penthouse isn’t at all what I expected.

When Axton contacted me to let me know he was sick and offered to reschedule, I knew he was going to send out another artist if I insisted on keeping the appointment. As well-recommended as Axton came, I knew his shop had an equally good reputation for being staffed with excellent artists. But I hadn’t expected–

I don’t know what I expected, I suppose. Another guy like him,maybe. I realize how it sounds as soon as the gorgeous brunette in front of me tips her chin up and glares back at me, mouthing off in a way that no other person in my orbit would ever dare to do. Her attitude is refreshing, honestly–most of the people that I encounter in the course of a day are too frightened or obsequious to do anything other than askhow highif I say ‘jump’. But one look at this girl, and I know she’d tell me to fuck off if I tried to order her to do anything.

Although for some things, it would be worth it to find out.

I shake off the thought as I introduce myself. Emma is standing there with her arms crossed beneath her breasts, a canvas duffel at her feet, her gaze fixed on mine evenly. She’s not intimidated by me, not in the slightest–not until I say my name.

Even then, it would take a perceptive person to pick up on her reaction. A slight flinch, a quick intake of breath–her eyes widening just the slightest bit. The way she goes very still for a moment, as if she’s adding up a handful of clues and they all come to the same sum.

She recognizes the name. I can see it in her face. And I have a moment’s temptation to let her squirm.

Instead, I have mercy on her. I tell myself that it’s because she’s here for an appointment, and we’re already twenty minutes behind–not that it matters, really. She undoubtedly cleared her entire night for me. I only called Rico about it because I wasn’t sure if the artist filling in for him had simply decided not to show.

Not everyone wants to tattoo a mafia boss. It’s not like inking a celebrity or a basketball star. There’s the impression that if you make me angry, you’ll find yourself sinking somewhere off of the Venice pier. It’s not a tactic I’ve ever employed, to be honest, but it’s not an idea I’ve tried to actively dissuade, either. I find that a little fear is good for business.

“Let me see your portfolio,” I tell Emma, trying to cut through the sudden tension in the air. “I trust Rico wouldn’t have sent you if you didn’t do good work, but I’d like to see your style.”

She instantly relaxes the smallest bit. I can see it in the set of her shoulders, the way some of the tension leaves her face. “Of course.”She motions to one of the couches. “Let’s sit? I’ll show you some of my work.”

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