Page 5 of Mafia Obsession

Come to me, little storm.

What the fuck?

Nothing does this to me. I’m not a man who loses control over a glance, over a stranger in a room. Yet the fire in my veins crushes that truth in an unfiltered and violent launch under my skin.

I put down my half-empty glass of whiskey and consider crossing the hall to claim her. Clear a path, push bodies to the floor, and step over them if I have to. Take that woman by the wrist, or the miles of her champagne-blonde hair, drag her past velvet ropes and into my Bentley. I’d keep her in my penthouse. Force her to sign my contract so she understands she is mine.

It’s been forever since I engaged in a temporary arrangement with a woman. One I own. One only I touch. Thirty days. Sixty, maybe. They fulfill their contracts. Fulfillme, and I let them go.

I don’t do relationships. I don’t do love.

Feeling this way will only lead to poor choices and my undoing.

A flash of rage rattles my bones, not knowing what to do. A rare conundrum. I’ve been blessed with remorseless clarity.

I straighten, forcing air into my lungs, jaw locking so hard my teeth ache. Control. I demand it of myself the same way I demand it of everyone else.

I search the woman’s hands. Both have rings on several fingers. A sad-looking gold band encircles the ring finger of her left hand. But I don’t see any kind of diamond.

Sheis the diamond.

My vision narrows, and the noise of the hall fades to a low roar. I stare at the woman who has just upended the architecture of my mind without even knowing her name. And I will not breathe easily again until I claim her.

She isn’t leaving with someone else. No one else is touching her tonight.

Whoever she belonged to this morning has just lost her. I don’t share. And I don’t walk away. I’ve killed men for less, without so much as a spike to my pulse.

The blonde glances around once more and heads toward the back corridor. I worry she plans to leave. But when she heads toward the restrooms, a ruthless strategic decision hits me.

Fast. Perfect.

Chapter 3

Ares

AWhitehall bartender I recognize struts from a breakroom in the back corridor. She stops when I block her path.

“Can I help you, Mr. Zervas?” Selya greets me with respect.

“Restroom.” I gesture toward the ladies’ room door and take out my wallet. “Pink dress. Blonde. Steal her purse. And bring it to me. Make a scene of it.” I hand her two one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Sure thing.” Selya takes the cash, slides it into her tight blouse, and spins on her heels to do my bidding.

Thirty seconds later, she emerges from the women’s restroom and tosses me a gray leather clutch with a silver chain.

A holler from inside the bathroom steadies me for the confrontation.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “Don’t mention to Kirill that I paid you to steal from one of his customers.”

“Not if I want to keep my job by helping the God of War.” Selya winks and melts into the background of my night.

With blonde hair flying all around her face, my obsession rushes from the bathroom, eyes wild and cheeks flushed. She stops short when she sees me. Our eyes lock, and a small amount of disappointment rushes through me. I hoped that my eyesight had suffered from some temporary malfunction. That the immediate attraction was some kind of mistake. A glitch in my brain.

No. No. Andfucking no.

Up close, her features are sharper, but it’s the same conclusion I had before.

She’s beautiful, but in a classic, less made-up way. She appeals to a hidden desire I didn’t even know I wanted. Or needed.