Page 42 of His Cruel Exception

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Why am I getting turned on watching Antonio break someone’s fingers?

Antonio moves on to the ring finger, bending it backward then takes the little finger next and bends it until Ivan cries out again. By the time Antonio finally releases his hand, Ivan is sobbing, his injured fingers trembling as he cradles them against his chest, with only his thumb left untouched. I stand there in stunned silence, staring at Antonio as he straightens and Ivan hunches over his injured hand as sobs rack his body.

“I’m letting you keep your life only so you can work for me,” he says, his voice low and steady. “If the two men come back to your base, you report it to me. And if your boss later accepts the offer, I want to be the first one to know. Got it?”

Ivan nods frantically, looking up at Antonio with such obvious terror that I doubt he'll ever forget a single word of those instructions. Davide hauls Ivan to his feet and leads him out of the alley.

Enzo strolls over to me, his hands tucked casually into his pockets and an insufferable smirk is on his face. “How hot are you for my cousin right now?”

I feel heat rushing into my cheeks because he isn’t far off. My cock twitches in my pants just remembering Antonio holding Ivan's wrist and breaking his fingers.

Antonio returns and takes my hand, his fingers closing securely around mine as he glances at my face. “Let’s go. You need to rest.”

“Look at that, Mason,” Enzo says to the man who shot Igor. “My cousin is caring.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling, but Mason smiles faintly as he pulls out a black glove. He then carries Igor's body and follows us out of the alley.

Chapter

Twenty-One

ANTONIO

Your car has retired,” I tell Alexander as I walk into the dining room.

His fork pauses halfway to his mouth, and he looks up at me through his glasses before pushing them higher on his nose with his free hand, then lowers his fork to his plate with a small frown.

“You said you could fix it.”

I've spent most of the past week working on that fucking Volvo, dividing what little free time I have between the car and a series of meetings with my cousins, our parents, and the heads of the core families in our clan. The news about the planned coup has kept everyone occupied, and I've had more pressing matters to deal with than an ancient vehicle that seems determined to make a fool out of me.

Nevertheless, I've watched tons of repair videos, ordered replacement parts, and even endured several afternoons of Marco looking over my shoulder and telling me what I'm doing wrong. Of all my cousins, he's the most knowledgeable about automobiles, and after examining the Volvo himself, he reached the same conclusion.

The fucking thing is dead

“Dante can maybe fix it,” Alexander suggests.

“You are not going to him,” I growl.

I don't know what angers me more, the fact that he's still determined to save that miserable car or the ease with which he keeps bringing up his mechanic. I've never met the Dante fellow, and I already hate him.

“Okay,” Alexander says in a low voice. “Can I see it?”

I extend my hand, and he rises from his chair, sliding his fingers into mine before allowing me to lead him out of the dining room. He follows me to the elevator without another question, occasionally glancing up at me as we descend to the underground parking garage.

The moment we step out, he looks around, but I stop him before he can wander off and retrieve the small box I've been carrying in my pocket. I place it in his hand, watching as he turns it over with a puzzled expression.

“What’s this for?”

I step aside, giving him an unobstructed view of the Audi parked beside my BMW.

“It’s for you, little stripper.”

He follows my gaze, and his eyes widen behind his glasses as he takes in the car. I had it delivered earlier this morning, freshly detailed and ready for him to drive.

“You got me a car?” he asks, his voice rising considerably.