The Bottom Bunk

Chapter 74

Penny

"All right, everyone, settle down." Abby taps a fork against her champagne flute. The people in the room gradually quiet. I glance around and take in JJ with his now-fiancée Lena—yep, he proposed— talking with that other silver fox, Philippe, in a corner of the room. Their heads are bent, and JJ whispers something to Philippe, who barks out a laugh.

Next to them, Sinclair sits with Summer. There’s a bassinet next to them in which their daughter snoozes. Sinclair pulls Summer into his side, and she cuddles in. On the opposite side of the room, Michael and his wife Karma are absorbed in each other. They’ve gotten a babysitter for the evening and are, undoubtedly, enjoying their free time. That is, until Karma’s next one comes along. At three months, she’s not yet showing, but there’s no doubt she’s pregnant. She’s glowing; also, Michael has his big palm cupped over her belly—a dead giveaway—and the other around her shoulder. He kisses her forehead before turning his attention to Abby.

Mira is working tonight and couldn’t be here, much to her disappointment. The celebrity factor is covered by #Declene. Solene is curled into Declan, while he's sprawled out on an armchair not far from Summer. The two were shooting in New Zealand but took their first break in weeks and decided to come to London to catch up with their friends before they whizz off to one of the islands in the Mediterranean for a much-deserved break.

Edward, the only one of the Seven who doesn’t live in London but who happens to be visiting, stands next to the bar. He has a drink in his hand. Rick stands next to him. Tiny pants at his feet, his gaze fixed firmly on the bottle of champagne Cade holds in his hand. Cade, for his part, has his gaze locked on Tiny. There’s a warning look on his face. Tiny whines, and Cade shakes his head slowly. Tiny lets out a big sigh, then sags to the floor and cradles his big head on his paws. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the bottle of champagne, though. Yep, the mutt has a taste for champagne. He’s been known to pour an entire bottle down his gullet. Or so Isla warned me in one of her calls. No wonder, Cade has one arm around Abby and the other is fixed to the bottle of bubbles. He’s not giving it up easily.

"Thank you everyone for being here today. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see all our friends and family in one room. I know we are all busy people, but I wanted to properly welcome the newest addition to our family."

"Is she talking about me?" Bianca whispers from where she’s seated on the sofa between me and my husband. Her dress is pink, of course, a twin of the one I’m wearing. She transformed into a mini-me practically overnight. In fact, she’s taken to us and us to her so quickly, I almost can’t remember how it was without her.

"Of course she is, Princess." Knight takes her hand in his and brings it up to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

Bianca giggles. "I’m not a real Princess, Papa."

"You’re the princess of my heart." He flashes her an adoring smile. Knight’s entranced by Bianca, and she has a case of hero-worship. Not that I blame her. He has that effect on all females.

"We are so proud and grateful to have you with us, Bianca. Welcome home." Abby raises her flute.

That’s when Giorgina breezes in on her six-inch high heels. "Hello everyone, sorry I’m late." She takes in the scene, and in a very dramatic gesture, pops out her hip and plants her hand on it. "Hope I’m not interrupting…" She arches a delicate eyebrow.

Across from me, Rick stiffens. He glares at the newcomer with something like longing, before quickly disguising the expression.

If Giorgina notices him, she doesn’t pay him any heed. She spots the bottle of champagne Cade holds and exclaims. "Aha, so you’re the guardian of the bubbles?"

She struts toward him, snatches up a flute from the bar, and taking the bottle from him, examines the label. "Dom Pérignon, excellent. I think I might have found my tribe after all. I—"

Tiny leaps to his feet. She blinks and watches him, mouth open as he prances over to her. For a big dog, he can be very graceful and purposeful when he has his sights set on something. Before she can move, he rears up. Gio screams, and her eyes bug out. Tiny snatches the bottle of champagne from her hands, tips the bottle down his gullet, and plants his paws on the floor next to Gio in one smooth move. He releases the empty champagne bottle, which rolls away, then brushes past her. The momentum makes her stagger back. Her heels catch in a crack in the wooden floor, and she begins to tip over. She yells out, throws up her hands, and her handbag goes flying. Before she can hit the floor, Rick is there. He catches her around the waist.

For a second, Gio is plastered from back to hip to thigh against Rick’s front. Her gaze widens, and color flushes her cheek. She pulls free from Rick, then spins around and raises her hand. "How dare you touch me, you oaf."

To find out what happens next

read Gio and Rick’s story HERE.

Read an excerpt:

Giorgina

"On your knees. Mouth open. Tongue out." He wraps his fingers around my throat and leans in until his breath raises the fine hair on my forehead. "You’re such a good girl. You take everything I give you so beautifully."

My breath hitches. My belly flutters. When Shane East says 'good girl' I’d do anything he wants, even if it causes pain. Especially, if it causes pain. He can train my holes anytime.

A-n-d… Don’t you dare tell my friends I’m listening to

The Billionaire’s Fake Wife

by L. Steele, instead of

How to Win Friends and Influence People

by Dale Carnegie. After all, as everyone knows, I only listen to motivational speakers and only read self-help books. And… I have my life organized by the minute—if not, the second, which I would if I could, and I have tried, but it’s counterproductive. Managing by the half-hour works a lot better. It allows me to deliver on my tasks, so everything is perfect. Just how I like it. Which reminds me, I have precisely thirty minutes to get this shindig over with. The only reason I’m here is because my friend Abby invited me and I couldn’t say no. I flounce into the room, hitch my Hermès bag over my shoulder and declare, "Hello, everyone, sorry I’m late."

Silence descends, broken only by Shane’s baritone in my ear which growls, "Come for me now. Right now." Oopsie, best to shut off my audiobook for the time I’m here. I slide out my phone from my handbag, stop the audio, then pull out my earphones and drop them into my bag.

When I look up, my gaze arrows in on the man hulking by the bar. He’s six-foot-six—no kidding—the tallest, hunkiest man I’ve ever met—outside of my spicy novels, though I’ll never tell him that—with shoulders that fill my vision. And that chest of his, clad in a black T-shirt which is threadbare and outlines every single ridge and divot of his pecs, and that throat—OMG, that gorgeous, sinewed throat, with veins that pop in relief for he’s pissed.

Of course, he’s pissed, as evidenced by the set of his jaw, the nerve that flexes at his temple, and those dark brows drawn down over his eyes. Blue eyes. Icy and frosted, and downright glacial, they chill me to the bone even as the sight of his luscious, pouty, lower lip makes me want to dig my teeth in and draw blood.

Argh.

These conflicting emotions where Rick Mitchell is concerned always give me whiplash.

How can you hate a man and yet, be attracted to him so much?

His gaze intensifies.

He raises a bottle of water to his mouth. His biceps bulge, the veins on his forearms stand out in relief, and my mouth waters.

Ugh, why does he have the most deliciously sculpted arms?

And that narrow waist, lean hips, and thick, powerful thighs that contract as he walks, and between them, that bulge —which indicates he’s packing something mean and big and— He widens his stance, and I jerk my head up. His lips curl, and oh, my word, that smirk. It’s hot and mean and so very annoying.

So, he caught the staring. Big deal. It’s a free country, last time I checked. So what, if this city is dull and grey and the rain gets on my nerves? I’m not one to complain. I’m going to work with the cards I’ve been dealt. My life has been nothing if not preparation for me to meet challenges head on. It doesn’t stop heat from flushing my cheeks, though.

His grin widens, then he wraps those succulent lips around the bottle of water and guzzles from it.

I will not stare at his throat as he swallows. Will not allow myself to salivate at the thought of licking my way up that hard column and tasting the salt on his skin. Will not.

He raises the glass in my direction. Caught again. Twice in two minutes. What a disaster. I toss my hair over my shoulder, pop out my hip—clad in the latest Max-Mara creation, by the way and tip up my chin, then force myself to tear my gaze away from that gorgeous, irritating hunk of a man.

"Hope I’m not interrupting." I arch an eyebrow at the room in general and spot the bottle of champagne Cade—my friend, Abby’s husband—holds in his hand.

"Aha, so you’re the guardian of the bubbles?" I say brightly.

Guardian of the bubbles? What. The. Hell? Clearly, I’ve been spending too much time in the company of Hollywood personalities. Couldn’t come up with anything better? Also, to hell with that. I’m funny and charming, and outgoing. Stay positive. Fake it till you make it, remember?

I strut toward him, procure a flute from the bar, and taking the bottle from him, check out the label. "Dom Pérignon, excellent. I think I might have found my tribe after all, I—"

Suddenly, a pony—no, it’s a dog, a massive mutt, a Great Dane, by the looks of it—leaps up to his feet. He must have been crouched down by Rick’s legs, and I didn’t notice him because, of course, I was focused on the man to the exclusion of everything else.

Seriously though, am I that taken in by this man that I missed this…this… Enormous beast who now prowls toward me? There’s a glint in his eyes, as he takes me in—like I’m his next meal. The hair on the nape of my neck rises. His jowls shiver. He opens his jaws, and drool drips from them. His teeth are so sharp. I swallow. He’s moving toward me with such intent. Is he going to bite off my head, or maybe, a hand? Doesn't anybody else see this? Why isn't anyone stopping him?

My pulse rate spikes. Ohmigod. I should cry out for help. I should. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He draws closer, and every cell in my body seems to freeze. He gathers speed as he nears, then rears up, and believe me when I say, he's taller than I am.

I whimper. That's right—brave, confident, takes-no-prisoners Giorgina whimpers. My heart fights to escape my ribcage. The blood pounds at my temples. He snatches the bottle of champagne from my hands, upturns it so the contents empty down his gullet, then plants his paws back on the floor, drops the bottle, and pushes past me to the sound of several voices yelling in unison, "Tiny!"

Seriously? Tiny?

I stumble back. The six-inch high heels of my Louboutin's catch in a crack in the wooden floors.

Oh, no, no, no.

I begin to tip over.

I throw up my hands to try to find my balance, and my handbag goes flying.

This is it. Death by Great Dane. Ugh! That's not the kind of headline I want to make.

I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact, only something strong and hard bands around my waist. The breath whooshes out of me. The next second, I’m hauled to an upright position. I know who it is before I sense the heat that leaps off of him and lassoes around me. I know who it is before that scent of fresh snow and cut grass teases my nostrils. I know who it is because I’m plastered from back to hip to thigh against his front and his sizable thickness stabs into the curve of my butt. I know who it is because no one but he could sport such arousal so big, it feels like a hockey stick has slapped me in the rear.

Jesus. Of course, my brain goes to hockey sticks. He's likely to be the new Captain of the London Ice Kings, so he'd better know how to wield a hockey stick. I mean, not the one between his legs—nope, not going there in my head. Obviously, I'm sure he plays with that one, too—the one between his legs, I mean. And ohmigod, the image of his big, fat fingers squeezing his monster cock is something I’m not going to forget in a hurry.

His grasp around my waist tightens, and he pulls me so close, said hockey stick—is it curved at the end, too?—throbs against me. It seems to grow longer, thicker, larger…

Gah, that’s your imagination. It has to be.

No one has such a big dick, except maybe, porn stars. And Rick’s not a porn star. He’s a freakin’ ex-NHL player, who did a stint with the Royal Marines, did some moonlighting as a bodyguard, and is now back to playing hockey. That’s all he is. He’s human.

He may look like a god, avenging angel, and devil, all rolled into one, but he’s a man. A man who’s larger-than-life, and built, given no inch of him gives while I’m plastered to him, including his cock, which is now happily nestled in the cleavage between my butt-cheeks, and...

OMG!

My flush deepens, and spreads down my chest to my extremities. A thousand little fires spark across my skin.

Someone clears their throat, and I glance around the room to find every single gaze is on me.

Oh no, no, no. Nice way to make an impression on your new employer

"Let me go." I pull free from Rick who, thankfully, releases me, then spin around. "How dare you touch me, you oaf?"

Rick

She raises her hand, and I sense she’s going to slap me, but I don’t stop her. Instead, I welcome her palm connecting with my cheek. I welcome the sting of pain that zips out from her touch and down my spine. I welcome the throb in my balls, the twitch of my dick which has only grown harder thanks to the contact of her skin with mine. I welcome the flash of anger in her golden eyes, the red stain of her cheeks, the pulse that beats at the base of her throat. When I don’t react, her gaze grows stricken, she firms her lips.

"I don’t need your help," she hisses at me.

"What you

think

you need and what you

need

are two entirely different things,” I drawl.

She huffs. "I’m not sorry I slapped you." Her gaze flicks to my cheek where her palm-print is, no doubt, in evidence.

"I’m not sorry I caught you," I murmur.

"Good."

"Good," I agree.

She tips up her chin, then turns to leave, and promptly stumbles on the same gap in the wooden floor. If I were a bastard, I’d let her fall. If I were the asshole she thinks I am, I’d allow her to hit the floor on her knees and hurt herself, but the thought does funny things to my guts, so I catch her around her waist again—because that’s going to piss her off to no end—and right her. Then, before she can turn and tell me off, I step back.

Looks like you can’t do without me, after all." I brush past her and snap my fingers at Tiny who, having emptied the champagne bottle down his gullet—don’t ask—jumps to his feet and prances over to me to hand it over.

I stare into the bottle—nope, not a drop left in it—then back at Tiny, who pants up at me with a happy smile on his face. The mutt smiles, I kid you not. He has what must be the biggest and most satisfied smile in the doggy world on his face. And I'm stuck with him for the foreseeable future. "Can’t take you anywhere, eh?" I murmur.

In response, Tiny thumps his tail on the floor, and the ground seems to shake a little. Or maybe, that’s from the gnashing of teeth I can hear coming from Giorgina’s direction. I ignore Little Miss Spoiled Brat and walk toward my friend and new boss, Knight Warren. He recently married Penny, and they’ve adopted his friend Adam’s little girl Bianca. She jumps to her feet and races toward us. "He’s sooo cute." She throws her arm around Tiny’s neck. The Great Dane stays still and lets her fuss over him.

"He also polished off a $4000 bottle of champagne," I say in a low voice to her parents.

Knight chuckles. "Doesn’t seem to affect him at all. Besides, Cade can afford it."

As if hearing his name, Cade Kingston, captain of the English cricket team prowls over to us. "What are you ladies whispering about?"

"That you’re going to have competition for rabid fans, now that the London Ice Kings has him as the captain." Knight nods in my direction.

Cade does a double-take. "You’re accepting the offer?"

"I haven’t said yes, yet," I admit.

Knight’s wife Penny rises to her feet. "You going to make that a habit?" She jerks her chin toward the palm-print I wear on my cheek.

I shrug. "It was worth it."

She frowns. "Gio has a good heart. I know she can come across as haughty and disdainful, but she’s a loyal friend."

"So am I."

"Go easy on her, okay?" She reaches up and pats my cheek.

"I don’t plan on having anything to do with her," I murmur.

"Hmm." She turns to Knight. A look passes between them, then she bends and kisses his cheek. "Time I get Bianca to say goodbye to everyone."

"I’ll be right behind you, baby." He wraps his hand about the nape of her neck and pulls her back for a thorough kiss. By the time Penny straightens, she’s flushed and blushing, and her eyes are sparkling. With a giggle, she bends and puts her arm about Bianca’s shoulder. "Come along, honey. Let’s say our goodbyes to everyone."

"Do I have to say goodbye to Tiny?" The little girl pouts.

"You’ll see him again soon," I point out.

"Promise?" She holds out her palm.

"Promise." I place my much larger palm over hers and squeeze gently. She seems satisfied. Enough to pull her hand from mine, and with a last hug for Tiny, she allows her ma to lead her toward the others.

Knight turns to me. "Right, then, I do need to go as well. But first, I need to point out that hockey is your first love. Not a day went by in the army when you didn’t follow news of the sport from around the world. You’re the only man I know who tunes in regardless of who is playing."

"So?" I raise a shoulder.

"So, I don’t know of anyone else who lives and breathes the game as much as you. You’re perfect to take the team into the League."

The League is the European equivalent of the Cup in the U.S. Competition is fierce. The very fact that he thinks I… The man who hasn’t competed professionally in well over five years, stands a chance of playing, let alone leading the team to victory, shows how deluded this man is.

I open my mouth to tell him so, but he shakes his head. "You know that’s the only reason you were on the military’s ice hockey team."

"It was the best way of working out." I raise a shoulder.

"Bull-fucking-shit," Knight and Cade say at the same time.

I chuckle. "Fine, so it’s also because I did like playing on ice. That doesn’t mean I want to compete on a professional level again."

Knight scans my features. "Think about it. Think what you really want, mofo. After all these years of doing what is expected of you, do the thing you really want to do in here—" He slaps his palm into the space over my heart, and I hesitate.

"Where is this coming from?" I crack my neck. "And how do you know I’m not doing what I want right now?"

"You mean babysitting Hollywood stars—"

"It’s called being a bodyguard," I snap.

"And not that I don’t love our resident silver screen icons,"—He nods to where Solene, the biggest popstar since Taylor Swift and her fiancé Declan, the leading superstar of Hollywood, are currently sucking face in an armchair across the room—"but you have to admit, it doesn’t hold a candle up to the feeling you get when you mow down the opposition and you swing the puck home."

Images of the last time I was on ice at the final of the Cup, as the centerman of my team, controlling the pace of the game, impacting the offensive and defensive positions, helping the players on my team, winning face-offs, leading breakouts, throwing that final puck towards the goal… Then, walking off the ice and never looking back. What happened that day is something I don’t like to revisit. It’s the reason I’ve avoided the ice since. Am I ready to go back and face the ghost of what happened that day? I’m not sure, to be honest.

I open my mouth, but Knight claps my shoulder. "Don’t answer yet. Also, there’s one more thing you should know—" He breaks off to look over my shoulder. "Giorgina, you’re just in time."

Giorgina

"In time for what?" I strut over to them—because that’s the only way I can walk in these heels, which seemed to be a good idea when I spent half a month’s salary on them, but which I’m now wondering was a good idea, but I have them on, so might as well as make the most of them, right? "What are you gentleman conferring about?"

Cade flashes me a smile. "Heard so much about you from Abby, but we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m Cade."

"Giorgina." I hold out my hand. "You can call me—"

"—Giorgina," Rick snaps.

I shoot him a shocked glance. What’s wrong with the man? He’s more angry than usual.

"Gio, is it?" Cade’s grin widens. He reaches for my hand, but Rick snaps his fingers, and the Great Dane lumbers to his feet and steps between me and Cade.

"What the—?" I gape.

Cade laughs. "Sending a mutt to do your dirty work, hmm?" He shoots Rick an amused glance. "I’m off to kiss my wife. Haven’t done so in nearly ten minutes; need to remedy that." He tips his head in my direction. "Nice to meet you, Giorgina. Don’t let Rick’s bad attitude color your opinion about the rest of us."

Rick glowers.

Knight chuckles.

Cade swaggers off, and I follow his progress. He reaches Abby, draws her in, then bends her over in a theatrical move and kisses her. By the time he straightens, Abby’s laughing, as are their friends. Then Michael and Karma approach them and the four begin an earnest conversation. There’s an ease among this group of people, one which hints at shared experiences. One I’m not part of and might never be.

I’ve never had the time to focus on building friendships. I’ve been too focused on my career. And the one time I did let my guard down and trust someone… Well, let's just say, that didn't turn out well. Nope, those warm, fuzzy feelings are not for me. Besides I don’t need friends. I’m here to focus on building my new career and developing a healthy relationship with my new boss. I turn to Knight, the owner of the London Ice Kings. "I can’t wait to start work on the marketing and PR for the team."

Knight smiles. "We’re very lucky to have you on board, Giorgina."

Rick mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "That makes one of us."

I shoot him a glance. "What was that?"

"Who, me?" He stabs a thumb into his chest. "I didn’t say anything."

"Hmm," I firm my lips.

"I’m glad the two of you already know one another; you'll be working closely together."

"We will?" Rick scowls.

"He’s not yet the captain of the team," I remind Knight.

"That’s true," Knight slowly nods. "If Rick doesn’t accept the position, you’ll work in

close proximity

with whoever replaces him."

That draws a low growl from Rick. His nostrils flare. A vein pulses at his temple.

"Something you want to say, Mitchell?" Knight murmurs.

Rick scowls at him. "I know what you’re doing."

Knight chuckles. "Is it working?"

Something passes between the two men. "What am I missing, someone care to fill me in?" I burst out.

"Just that you’ll have a dotted line reporting into the captain. This being a new team, a lot of the attention will fall on him, so you’ll need to not only work closely with him but also take your cues from him in terms of building up his image." Knight interjects in a smooth voice.

"O-k-a-y," I nod. It’s unusual but not unheard of.

"Also, Priest has agreed to take on the role of the General Manager—"

"Edward has?" Rick arches an eyebrow.

"Given his background and the challenges he’s overcome, he was the perfect choice for the role. I have to admit, I was surprised when he accepted, but he has his reasons," Knight cuts the air with his hand. "All in all, things are shaping up well. But it’s going to take a lot of effort on the part of everyone to pull things together. This means the captain will need to not only get the team working together as a unit, but he’ll also have to pull his share when it comes to the marketing and publicity."

"Makes sense." I nod.

"As the PR manager you’ll need to have daily meetings with the captain, and work intimately with him on crafting the details of the publicity strategy for the team."

"That’s what I do best." I square my shoulders. "In no time at all, I’ll have whipped the image of the captain and the team into shape."

"In the initial days, you’ll have to work in very close quarters with the captain."

I frown. "I understand. I’m not one to shirk from hard-work, and since Rick is not the captain"—

thank god

—"things should run smoothly, and—"

"I accept the role," Rick interjects.

"What?" I slingshot my head in his direction. "You’re doing it to get on my nerves."

"I’m doing it because Knight needs me."

I slap my hand on my hip. "Until a few seconds ago, you were positive the role wasn’t for you."

"That was then."

"So, what changed?"

"I realized Knight was right all along; I’m the man for the job."

"You are." Knight nods.

"I don’t want to work with you," I snap.

"Are you saying you’re not accepting the role?" Knight frowns.

"Umm…" I turn to him. "That’s not what I’m saying." I need this job. I ran out of L.A., breaking the lease on my place, without any savings—which means, my cashflow is almost non-existent at the moment. And the Ice Kings’ salary is more than generous. To be honest, I don’t have an option. But if it means I’m going to be working closely with this asshole, well… Do I have a choice?

"Good, so you’re on board as PR and Marketing Manager, and you"—he turns his gaze on Rick—"are Captain." Knight’s face breaks into a smile. "About fucking time." He claps Rick on the shoulder. "I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted and come up with a plan." With a last nod that encompasses both of us, he heads off.

"Shit." I curl my fingers around the strap of my bag.

"Fuck." Rick rakes his fingers through his hair.

"This is all your fault." I stab a finger at him. "Why couldn’t you have said no to the role?"

To find out what happens next

read Gio and Rick’s story HERE.

How many items get crossed off of Penny’s bucket list? To find out get your exclusive free bonus epilogue

here and read to find out

Read Summer & Sinclair Sterling’s story HERE in The Billionaire’s Fake Wife

Read an excerpt from Summer & Sinclair’s story

Summer

"Slap, slap, kiss, kiss."

"Huh?" I stare up at the bartender.

"Aka, there's a thin line between love and hate." He shakes out the crimson liquid into my glass.

"Nah." I snort. "Why would she allow him to control her, and after he insulted her?"

"It’s the chemistry between them." He lowers his head, "You have to admit that when the man is arrogant and the woman resists, it’s a challenge to both of them, to see who blinks first, huh?"

"Why?" I wave my hand in the air, "Because they hate each other?"

"Because," he chuckles, "the girl in school whose braids I pulled and teased mercilessly, is the one who I—"

"Proposed to?" I huff.

His face lights up. "You get it now?"

Yeah. No.

A headache begins to pound at my temples. This crash course in pop psychology is not why I came to my favorite bar in Islington, to meet my best friend, who is—I glance at the face of my phone—thirty minutes late.

I inhale the drink, and his eyebrows rise.

"What?" I glower up at the bartender. "I can barely taste the alcohol. Besides, it’s free drinks at happy hour for women, right?"

"Which ends in precisely" he holds up five fingers, "minutes."

"Oh! Yay!" I mock fist pump. "Time enough for one more, at least."

A hiccough swells my throat and I swallow it back, nod.

One has to do what one has to do… when everything else in the world is going to shit.

A hot sensation stabs behind my eyes; my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?

The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.

"Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.

My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."

"You sure?"

"Yes." I square my shoulders and reach for the drink.

"No. She’s had enough."

"What the—?" I pivot on the bar stool.

Indigo eyes bore into me.

Fathomless. Black at the bottom, the intensity in their depths grips me. He swoops out his arm, grabs the glass and holds it up. Thick fingers dwarf the glass. Tapered at the edges. The nails short and buff.

All the better to grab you with

. I gulp.

"Like what you see?"

I flush, peer up into his face.

Hard cheekbones, hollows under them, and a tiny scar that slashes at his left eyebrow.

How did he get that?

Not that I care. My gaze slides to his mouth. Thin upper lip, a lower lip that is full and cushioned. Pouty with a hint of bad boy.

Oh!

My toes curl. My thighs clench.

The corner of his mouth kicks up.

Asshole.

Bet he thinks life is one big smug-fest. I glower, reach for my glass, and he holds it up and out of my reach.

I scowl. "Gimme that."

He shakes his head.

"That’s my drink."

"Not anymore." He shoves my glass at the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a whiskey, neat."

I splutter, then reach for my drink again. The barstool tips in his direction. This is when I fall against him, and my breasts slam into his hard chest, sculpted planes with layers upon layers of muscle that ripple and writhe as he turns aside, flattens himself against the bar. The floor rises up to meet me.

What the actual hell?

I twist my torso at the last second and my butt connects with the surface.

Ow!

The breath rushes out of me. My hair swirls around my face. I scramble for purchase, and my knee connects with his leg.

"Watch it." He steps around, stands in front of me.

"You stepped aside?" I splutter. "You let me fall?"

"Hmph."

I tilt my chin back, all the way back, look up the expanse of muscled thigh that stretches the silken material of his suit.

What is he wearing? Could any suit fit a man with such precision?

Hand crafted on Saville Row, no doubt. I glance at the bulge that tents the fabric between his legs.

Oh!

I blink.

Look away, look away.

I hold out my arm. He'll help me up at least, won't he?

He glances at my palm, then turns away.

No, he didn't do that, no way.

A glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. He lifts the tumbler to his sculpted mouth.

His throat moves, strong tendons flexing. He tilts his head back, and the column of his neck moves as he swallows. Dark hair covers his chin—it's a discordant chord in that clean-cut profile, I shiver. He would scrape that rough skin down my core. He'd mark my inner thighs, lick my core, thrust his tongue inside my melting channel and drink from my pussy.

Oh! God.

Goosebumps rise on my skin.

No one has the right to look this beautiful, this achingly gorgeous. Too magnificent for his own good. Anger coils in my chest.

"Arrogant wanker."

"I’ll take that under advisement."

"You’re a jerk, you know that?"

He presses his lips together. The grooves on either side of his mouth deepen. Jesus, clearly the man has never laughed a single day in his life. Bet that stick up his arse is uncomfortable. I chuckle.

He runs his gaze down my features, my chest, down to my toes, then yawns.

The hell!

I will not let him provoke me. Will not. "Like what you see?" I jut out my chin.

"Sorry, you’re not my type." He slides a hand into the pocket of those perfectly cut pants, stretching it across that heavy bulge.

Heat curls low in my belly.

Not fair, that he could afford a wardrobe that clearly shouts his status and what amounts to the economy of a small third-world country. A hot feeling stabs in my chest.

He reeks of privilege, of taking his status in life for granted.

While I’ve had to fight every inch of the way. Hell, I am still battling to hold onto the last of my equilibrium.

"Last chance—" I wiggle my fingers from where I am sprawled out on the floor at his feet, "—to redeem yourself…"

"You have me there." He places the glass on the counter, then bends and holds out his hand. The hint of discolored steel at his wrist catches my attention. Huh?

He wears a cheap-ass watch?

That's got to bring down the net worth of his presence by more than 1000% percent. Weird.

I reach up and he straightens.

I lurch back.

"Oops, I changed my mind." His lips curl.

A hot burning sensation claws at my stomach. I am not a violent person, honestly. But Smirky Pants here, he needs to be taught a lesson.

I swipe out my legs, kicking his out from under him.

Sinclair

My knees give way, and I hurtle toward the ground.

What the—? I twist around, thrust out my arms. My palms hit the floor. The impact jostles up my elbows. I firm my biceps and come to a halt planked above her.

A huffing sound fills my ear.

I turn to find my whippet, Max, panting with his mouth open. I scowl and he flattens his ears.

All of my businesses are dog-friendly. Before you draw conclusions about me being the caring sort or some such shit—it attracts footfall.

Max scrutinizes the girl, then glances at me.

Huh?

He hates women, but not her, apparently.

I straighten and my nose grazes hers.

My arms are on either side of her head. Her chest heaves. The fabric of her dress stretches across her gorgeous breasts. My fingers tingle; my palms ache to cup those tits, squeeze those hard nipples outlined against the—hold on, what is she wearing? A tunic shirt in a sparkly pink... and are those shoulder pads she has on?

I glance up, and a squeak escapes her lips.

Pink hair surrounds her face.

Pink? Who dyes their hair that color past the age of eighteen?

I stare at her face.

How old is she?

Un-furrowed forehead, dark eyelashes that flutter against pale cheeks. Tiny nose, and that mouth—luscious, tempting. A whiff of her scent, cherries and caramel, assails my senses. My mouth waters.

What the hell?

She opens her eyes and our eyelashes brush. Her gaze widens. Green, like the leaves of the evergreens, flickers of gold sparkling in their depths. "What?" She glowers. "You're demonstrating the plank position?"

"Actually," I lower my weight onto her, the ridge of my hardness thrusting into the softness between her legs, "I was thinking of something else, altogether."

She gulps and her pupils dilate.

Ah, so she feels it, too?

I drop my head toward her, closer, closer.

Color floods the creamy expanse of her neck. Her eyelids flutter down. She tilts her chin up.

I push up and off of her.

"That… Sweetheart, is an emphatic ‘no thank you’ to whatever you are offering."

Her eyelids spring open and pink stains her cheeks. Adorable. Such a range of emotions across those gorgeous features in a few seconds. What else is hidden under that exquisite exterior of hers?

She scrambles up, eyes blazing.

Ah!

The little bird is trying to spread her wings? My dick twitches. My groin hardens,

Why does her anger turn me on so, huh?

She steps forward, thrusts a finger in my chest.

My heart begins to thud.

She peers up from under those hooded eyelashes. "Wake up and taste the wasabi, asshole."

"What does that even mean?"

She makes a sound deep in her throat. My dick twitches. My pulse speeds up.

She pivots, grabs a half-full beer mug sitting on the bar counter.

I growl, "Oh, no, you don’t."

She turns, swings it at me. The smell of hops envelops the space.

I stare down at the beer-splattered shirt, the lapels of my camel colored jacket deepening to a dull brown. Anger squeezes my guts.

I fist my fingers at my side, broaden my stance.

She snickers.

I tip my chin up. "You're going to regret that."

The smile fades from her face. "Umm." She places the now empty mug on the bar.

I take a step forward and she skitters back. "It’s only clothes." She gulps. "They'll wash."

I glare at her and she swallows, wiggles her fingers in the air. "I should have known that you wouldn’t have a sense of humor."

I thrust out my jaw. "That’s a ten-thousand-pound suit you destroyed."

She blanches, then straightens her shoulders. "Must have been some hot date you were trying to impress, huh?"

"Actually," I flick some of the offending liquid from my lapels, "it’s you I was after."

"Me?" She frowns.

"We need to speak."

She glances toward the bartender who's on the other side of the bar. "I don’t know you." She chews on her lower lip, biting off some of the hot pink. How would she look, with that pouty mouth fastened on my cock?

The blood rushes to my groin so quickly that my head spins. My pulse rate ratchets up. Focus, focus on the task you came here for.

"This will take only a few seconds." I take a step forward.

She moves aside.

I frown. "You want to hear this, I promise."

"Go to hell." She pivots and darts forward.

I let her go, a step, another, because... I can? Besides it's fun to create the illusion of freedom first; makes the hunt so much more entertaining, huh?

I swoop forward, loop an arm around her waist, and yank her toward me.

She yelps. "Release me."

Good thing the bar is not yet full. It's too early for the usual officegoers to stop by. And the staff...? Well they are well aware of who cuts their paychecks.

I spin her around and against the bar, then release her. "You will listen to me."

She swallows; she glances left to right.

Not letting you go yet, little Bird.

I move into her space, crowd her.

She tips her chin up. "Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested."

I allow my lips to curl. "You don't fool me."

A flush steals up her throat, sears her cheeks. So tiny, so innocent. Such a good little liar. I narrow my gaze. "Every action has its consequences."

"Are you daft?" She blinks.

"This pretense of yours?" I thrust my face into hers, growling, "It’s not working."

She blinks, then color suffuses her cheeks. "You’re certifiably mad—"

"Getting tired of your insults."

"It's true, everything I said." She scrapes back the hair from her face.

Her fingernails are painted... You guessed it, pink.

"And here’s something else. You are a selfish, egotistical jackass."

I smirk. "You're beginning to repeat your insults and I haven't even kissed you yet."

"Don't you dare." She gulps.

I tilt my head. "Is that a challenge?"

"It's a..." she scans the crowded space, then turns to me. Her lips firm, "...a warning. You're delusional, you jackass." She inhales a deep breath before she speaks, "Your ego is bigger than the size of a black hole." She snickers. "Bet it's to compensate for your lack of balls."

A-n-d, that’s it. I’ve had enough of her mouth that threatens to never stop spewing words. How many insults can one tiny woman hurl my way? Answer: too many to count.

"You—"

I lower my chin, touch my lips to hers.

Heat, sweetness, the honey of her essence explodes on my palate. My dick twitches. I tilt my head, deepen the kiss, reaching for that something more… more… of whatever scent she’s wearing on her skin, infused with that breath of hers that crowds my senses, rushes down my spine. My groin hardens; my cock lengthens. I thrust my tongue between those infuriating lips.

She makes a sound deep in her throat and my heart begins to pound.

So innocent, yet so crafty. Beautiful and feisty. The kind of complication I don’t need in my life.

I prefer the straight and narrow. Gray and black, that’s how I choose to define my world. She, with her flashes of color—pink hair and lips that threaten to drive me to the edge of distraction—is exactly what I hate.

Give me a female who has her priorities set in life. To pleasure me, get me off, then walk away before her emotions engage. Yeah. That’s what I prefer.

Not this… this bundle of craziness who flings her arms around my shoulders, thrusts her breasts up and into my chest, tips up her chin, opens her mouth, and invites me to take and take.

Does she have no self-preservation? Does she think I am going to fall for her wide-eyed appeal? She has another thing coming.

I tear my mouth away and she protests.

She twines her leg with mine, pushes up her hips, so that melting softness between her thighs cradles my aching hardness.

I glare into her face and she holds my gaze.

Trains her green eyes on me. Her cheeks flush a bright red. Her lips fall open and a moan bleeds into the air. The blood rushes to my dick, which instantly thickens.

Fuck.

Time to put distance between myself and the situation.

It’s how I prefer to manage things. Stay in control, always. Cut out anything that threatens to impinge on my equilibrium. Shut it down or buy them off. Reduce it to a transaction. That I understand.

The power of money, to be able to buy and sell—numbers, logic. That’s what’s worked for me so far.

"How much?"

Her forehead furrows.

"Whatever it is, I can afford it."

Her jaw slackens. "You think… you—"

"A million?"

"What?"

"Pounds, dollars… You name the currency, and it will be in your account."

Her jaw slackens. "You're offering me money?"

"For your time, and for you to fall in line with my plan."

She reddens. "You think I am for sale?"

"Everyone is."

"Not me."

Here we go again. "Is that a challenge?"

Color fades from her face. "Get away from me."

"Are you shy, is that what this is?" I frown. "You can write your price down on a piece of paper if you prefer." I glance up, notice the bartender watching us. I jerk my chin toward the napkins. He grabs one, then offers it to her.

She glowers at him. "Did you buy him, too?"

"What do you think?"

She glances around. "I think everyone here is ignoring us."

"It’s what I’d expect."

"Why is that?"

I wave the tissue in front of her face. "Why do you think?"

"You own the place?"

"As I am going to own you."

She sets her jaw. "Let me leave and you won't regret this."

A chuckle bubbles up. I swallow it away. This is no laughing matter. I never smile during a transaction. Especially not when I am negotiating a new acquisition. And that’s all she is. The final piece in the puzzle I am building.

"No one threatens me."

"You’re right."

"Huh?"

"I’d rather act on my instinct."

Her lips twist, her gaze narrows. All of my senses scream a warning.

No, she wouldn’t, no way—pain slices through my middle and sparks explode behind my eyes.

To find out what happens next read Summer & Sinclair Sterling’s story HERE

Read Michael and Karma’s story in Mafia King HERE

Read an excerpt from Mafia King – Michael and Karma’s story

Karma

"Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day…"

Tears prick the backs of my eyes. Goddamn Byron. His words creep up on me when I am at my weakest. Not that I am a poetry addict, by any measure, but words are my jam. The one consolation I have is that, when everything else in the world is wrong, I can turn to them, and they’ll be there, friendly, steady, waiting with open arms.

And this particular poem had laced my blood, crawled into my gut when I’d first read it. Darkness had folded within me like an insidious snake, that raises its head when I least expect it. Like now, when I look out on the still sleeping city of London, from the grassy slope of Waterlow Park.

Somewhere out there, the Mafia is hunting me, apparently. It's why my sister Summer and her new husband Sinclair Sterling had insisted that I have my own security detail. I had agreed... only to appease them... then given my bodyguard the slip this morning. I had decided to come running here because it's not a place I'd normally go... Not so early in the morning, anyway. They won’t think to look for me here. At least, not for a while longer.

I purse my lips, close my eyes. Silence. The rustle of the wind between the leaves. The faint tinkle of the water from the nearby spring.

I could be the last person on this planet, alone, unsung, bound for the grave.

Ugh! Stop. Right there. I drag the back of my hand across my nose. Try it again, focus, get the words out, one after the other, like the steps of my sorry life.

"Morn came and went—and came, and… and…"

My voice breaks. "Bloody asinine hell." I dig my fingers into the grass and grab a handful and fling it out. Again. From the top.

"Morn came and went—and came, and—"

"…brought no day."

A gravelly voice completes my sentence.

I whip my head around. His silhouette fills my line of sight. He's sitting on the same knoll as me, yet I have to crane my neck back to see his profile. The sun is at his back, so I can't make out his features. Can't see his eyes... Can only take in his dark hair, combed back by a ruthless hand that brooked no measure.

My throat dries.

Thick dark hair, shot through with grey at the temples. He wears his age like a badge. I don’t know why, but I know his years have not been easy. That he’s seen more, indulged in more, reveled in the consequences of his actions, however extreme they might have been. He’s not a normal, everyday person, this man. Not a nine-to-fiver, not someone who lives an average life. Definitely not a man who returns home to his wife and home at the end of the day. He is…different, unique, evil… Monstrous. Yes, he is a beast, one who sports the face of a man but who harbors the kind of darkness inside that speaks to me. I gulp.

His face boasts a hooked nose, a thin upper lip, a fleshy lower lip. One that hints at hidden desires, Heat. Lust. The sensuous scrape of that whiskered jaw over my innermost places. Across my inner thigh, reaching toward that core of me that throbs, clenches, melts to feel the stab of his tongue, the thrust of his hardness as he impales me, takes me, makes me his. Goosebumps pop on my skin.

I drag my gaze away from his mouth down to the scar

that slashes across his throat. A cold sensation coils in my chest. What or who had hurt him in such a cruel fashion?

"Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light…"

He continues in that rasping guttural tone. Is it the wound that caused that scar that makes his voice so… gravelly… So deep… so… so, hot?

Sweat beads my palms and the hairs on my nape rise. "Who are you?"

He stares ahead as his lips move,

"Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour

They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks

Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black."

I swallow, moisture gathers in my core. How can I be wet by the mere cadence of this stranger’s voice?

I spring up to my feet.

"Sit down," he commands.

His voice is unhurried, lazy even, his spine erect. The cut of his black jacket stretches across the width of his massive shoulders. His hair… I was mistaken—there are threads of dark gold woven between the darkness that pours down to brush the nape of his neck. A strand of hair falls over his brow. As I watch, he raises his hand and brushes it away. Somehow, the gesture lends an air of vulnerability to him. Something so at odds with the rest of his persona that, surely, I am mistaken?

My scalp itches. I take in a breath and my lungs burn. This man... He’s sucked up all the oxygen in this open space as if he owns it, the master of all he surveys. The master of me. My death. My life. A shiver ladders along my spine.

Get away, get away now, while you still can.

I angle my body, ready to spring away from him.

"I won’t ask again."

Ask. Command. Force me to do as he wants. He’ll have me on my back, bent over, on my side, on my knees, over him, under him. He’ll surround me, overwhelm me, pin me down with the force of his personality. His charisma, his larger-than-life essence will crush everything else out of me and I… I’ll love it.

"No."

"Yes."

A fact. A statement of intent, spoken aloud. So true. So real. Too real. Too much. Too fast. All of my nightmares… my dreams come to life. Everything I’ve wanted is here in front of me. I’ll die a thousand deaths before he’ll be done with me… And then? Will I be reborn? For him. For me. For myself.

I live, first and foremost, to be the woman I was… am meant to be.

"You want to run?"

No.

I nod my head.

He turns his, and all the breath leaves my lungs. Blue eyes—cerulean, dark like the morning skies, deep like the nighttime...hidden corners, secrets that I don’t dare uncover. He’ll destroy me, have my heart, and break it so casually.

My throat burns and a boiling sensation squeezes my chest.

"Go then, my beauty, fly. You have until I count to five. If I catch you, you are mine."

"If you don’t?"

"Then I’ll come after you, stalk your every living moment, possess your nightmares, and steal you away in the dead of night, and then…"

I draw in a shuddering breath as liquid heat drips from between my legs. "Then?" I whisper.

"Then, I’ll ensure you’ll never belong to anyone else, you’ll never see the light of day again, for your every breath, your every waking second, your thoughts, your actions… and all your words, every single last one, will belong to me." He peels back his lips, and his teeth glint in the first rays of the morning light. "Only me." He straightens to his feet and rises, and rises.

This man… He is massive. A monster who always gets his way. My guts churn. My toes curl. Something primeval inside of me insists I hold my own. I cannot give in to him. Cannot let him win whatever this is. I need to stake my ground, in some form.

Say something. Anything. Show him you’re not afraid of this.

"Why?" I tilt my head back, all the way back. "Why are you doing this?"

He tilts his head, his ears almost canine in the way they are silhouetted against his profile.

"Is it because you can? Is it a… a," I blink, "a debt of some kind?"

He stills.

"My father, this is about how he betrayed the Mafia, right? You’re one of them?"

"Lucky guess." His lips twist, "It is about your father, and how he promised you to me. He reneged on his promise, and now, I am here to collect."

"No." I swallow…

No, no, no.

"Yes." His jaw hardens.

All expression is wiped clean of his face, and I know then, that he speaks the truth. It’s always about the past. My sorry shambles of a past… Why does it always catch up with me?

You can run, but you can never hide.

"Tick-tock, Beauty." He angles his body and his shoulders shut out the sight of the sun, the dawn skies, the horizon, the city in the distance, the rustle of the grass, the trees, the rustle of the leaves. All of it fades and leaves just me and him. Us.

Run.

"Five." He jerks his chin, straightens the cuffs of his sleeves.

My knees wobble.

"Four."

My pulse rate spikes. I should go. Leave. But my feet are planted in this earth. This piece of land where we first met. What am I, but a speck in the larger scheme of things? To be hurt. To be forgotten. To be taken without an ounce of retribution. To be punished... by him.

"Three." He thrusts out his chest, widens his stance, every muscle in his body relaxed. "Two."

I swallow. The pulse beats at my temples. My blood thrums.

"One."

Michael

"Go."

She pivots and races down the slope. Her dark hair streams behind her. Her scent, sexy femininity and silver moonflowers, clings to my nose, then recedes. It's so familiar, that scent.

I had smelled it before, had reveled in it. Had drawn in it into my lungs as she had peeked up at me from under her thick eyelashes. Her green gaze had fixed on mine, her lips parted as she welcomed my kiss. As she had wound her arms about my neck, pushed up those sweet breasts and flattened them against my chest. As she had parted her legs when I had planted my thigh between them. I had seen her before... in my dreams. I stiffen. She can't be the same girl, though, can she?

I reach forward, thrust out my chin and sniff the air, but there’s only the damp scent of dawn, mixed with the foul tang of exhaust fumes, as she races away from me.

She stumbles and I jump forward, pause when she straightens. Wait. Wait. Give her a lead. Let her think she has almost escaped, that she’s gotten the better of me… As if.

I clench my fists at my sides, force myself to relax. Wait. Wait. She reaches the bottom of the incline, turns. I surge forward. One foot in front of the other. My heels dig into the grassy surface and mud flies up, clings to the hem of my £4000 Italian pants. Like I care? Plenty more where that came from. An entire walk-in closet, full of clothes made to measure, to suit every occasion, with every possible accessory needed by a man in my position to impress…

Everything... Except the one thing that I had coveted from the moment I had laid eyes on her. Sitting there on the grassy slope, unshed tears in her eyes, and reciting… Byron? For hell’s sake. Of all the poets in the world, she had to choose the Lord of Darkness.

I huff. All a ploy. Clearly, she knew I was sitting next to her… No, not possible. I had walked toward her and she hadn’t stirred. Hadn’t been aware. Yeah, I am that good. I’ve been known to slit a man's throat from ear-to-ear while he was awake and in his full senses. Alive one second, dead the next. That’s how it is in my world. You want it, you take it. And I… I want her.

I increase my pace, eat up the distance between myself and the girl… That’s all she is. A slip of a thing, a slim blur of motion. Beauty in hiding. A diamond, waiting for me to get my hands on her, polish her, show her what it means to be…

Dead. She is dead. That’s why I am here.

A flash of skin, a creamy length of thigh. My groin hardens and my legs wobble. I lurch over a bump in the ground. The hell? I right myself, leap forward, inching closer, closer. She reaches a curve in the path, disappears out of sight.

My heart hammers in my chest. I will not lose her, will not.

Here, Beauty, come to Daddy.

The wind whistles past my ears. I pump my legs, lengthen my strides, turn the corner. There’s no one there. Huh?

My heart hammers and the blood pounds at my wrists, my temples; adrenaline thrums in my veins. I slow down, come to a stop. Scan the clearing.

The hairs on my forearms prickle. She’s here. Not far, but where? Where is she? I prowl across to the edge of the clearing, under the tree with its spreading branches.

When I get my hands on you, Beauty, I’ll spread your legs like the pages of a poem. Dip into your honeyed sweetness, like a quill pen in ink. Drag my aching shaft across that melting, weeping entrance.

My balls throb. My groin tightens. The crack of a branch above shivers across my stretched nerve endings. I swoop forward, hold out my arms, and close my grasp around the trembling, squirming mass of precious humanity. I cradle her close to my chest, heart beating thud-thud-thud, overwhelming any other thought.

Mine. All mine.

The hell is wrong with me? She wriggles her little body, and her curves slide across my forearms. My shoulders bunch and my fingers tingle. She kicks out with her legs and arches her back, thrusting her breasts up so her nipples are outlined against the fabric of her sports bra. She dared to come out dressed like that? In that scrap of fabric that barely covers her luscious flesh?

"Let me go." She whips her head toward me and her hair flows around her shoulders, across her face. She blows it out of the way. "You monster, get away from me."

Anger drums at the backs of my eyes and desire tugs at my groin. The scent of her is sheer torture, something I had dreamed of in the wee hours of twilight when dusk turned into night.

She’s not real. She’s not the woman I think she is. She is my downfall. My sweet poison. The bitter medicine I must partake of to cure the ills that plague my company.

"Fine." I lower my arms and she tumbles to the grass, hits the ground butt first.

"How dare you." She huffs out a breath, her hair messily arranged across her face.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my fitted pants, knees slightly bent, legs apart. Tip my chin down and watch her as she sprawls at my feet.

"You… dropped me?" She makes a sound deep in her throat.

So damn adorable.

"Your wish is my command." I quirk my lips.

"You don’t mean it."

"You’re right." I lean my weight forward on the balls of my feet and she flinches.

"What… what do you want?"

"You."

She pales. "You want to… to rob me? I have nothing of consequence.

"Oh, but you do, Beauty."

I lean in and every muscle in her body tenses. Good. She’s wary. She should be. She should have been alert enough to have run as soon as she sensed my presence. But she hadn’t.

I should spare her because she's the woman from my dreams... but I won't. She's a debt I intend to collect. She owes me, and I've delayed what was meant to happen long enough.

I pull the gun from my holster, point it at her.

Her gaze widens and her breath hitches. I expect her to plead with me for her life, but she doesn't. She stares back at me with her huge dilated pupils. She licks her lips and the blood drains to my groin.

Che cazzo!

Why does her lack of fear turn me on so?

"Your phone," I murmur, "take out your phone."

She draws in a breath, then reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone.

"Call your sister."

"What?"

"Dial your sister, Beauty. Tell her you are going away on a long trip to Sicily with your new male friend."

"What?"

"You heard me." I curl my lips. "Do it, now!'

She blinks, looks like she is about to protest, then her fingers fly over the phone.

Damn, and I had been looking forward to coaxing her into doing my bidding.

She holds her phone to her ear. I can hear the phone ring on the other side, before it goes to voicemail. She glances at me and I jerk my chin. She looks away, takes a deep breath, then speaks in a cheerful voice, "Hi Summer, it's me, Karma. I, ah, have to go away for a bit. This new... ah, friend of mine... He has an extra ticket and he has invited me to Sicily to spend some time with him. I... ah, I don't know when, exactly, I'll be back, but I'll message you and let you know. Take care. Love ya sis, I—"

I snatch the phone from her, disconnect the call, then hold the gun to her temple, "Goodbye, Beauty."

To find out what happens next read Mafia King HERE

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Read about the Seven in the Big Bad Billionaires series

Want to find out more about Karma and Summer’s babies and Isla’s child? You’ll find this and more in The Agreement.

Read Cade and Abby’s, brother’s best friend, fake relationship romance in

The Agreement HERE

Read Daddy JJ’s, age-gap romance in

Mafia Lust HERE

Read Olivia and Massimo’s second chance romance in

Mafia Obsession here

Did you know the Seven and The Sovranos are part of the same world and their stories intertwine from

The Proposal

onward.

You can find the

chapter 75