I step inside the bar and immediately stick to the shadows, not wanting her to know I'm here yet. The interior is no better than the outside—broken furniture, trash scattered across the floor, patrons who are clearly drunk or high wandering aimlessly and bumping into anything in their path. There's no immediate danger that I can identify, but this still isn't a place Elena should be spending her time, especially not alone.
She keeps looking around like she can sense someone watching her, but she hasn't spotted me yet. That's right, Elena—someone is watching you, and you're not going to like finding out who.
I settle into a corner table with a clear view of her booth. She's nursing some cheap beer and checking her phone every few minutes. Waiting for someone.
Ten minutes pass before the front door opens and a man walks in. He scans the bar until his eyes land on Elena. Then he heads straight for her table.
I don't recognize him, but I haven't spent much time on this side of town. He's older and stocky with a greasy combover. His disheveled clothes suggest he's not exactly thriving in whatever line of work he's chosen. The way he moves—careful, alert—tells me he's not just some random lowlife though. This guy knows how to watch his surroundings.
He slides into the booth across from Elena without asking permission. She doesn't look surprised to see him.
I move closer, positioning myself behind a support beam where I can hear their conversation without being obvious. Ready to step in immediately if the situation turns dangerous.
"They are getting more aggressive, and I need some help," Elena states, her voice carrying clearly in the relatively quiet space.
The man reaches for her hand in a gesture that's far too familiar for my liking. "You know my price for more help, la mia puttana," he says, the words dripping with suggestion as he rubs his thumb over the back of her hand.
Something dark and violent surges through my chest. La mia puttana. My whore.
The fuck he did not just call her that.
She is not his anything. Not his whore. Not his plaything. Not his goddamn business associate who pays with her body. The casual way he touches her—like he has the right, like she belongs to him—makes me want to break every finger on that hand. Slowly. Tortuously.
I've spent months watching her from a distance. Keeping my interest professional. Reminding myself she's off-limits for a dozen different reasons. And this greasy piece of shit thinks he can put his hands on her? Thinks he can speak to her like she's something he owns?
Not a fucking chance.
I'm moving before I consciously decide to. My body acts on pure instinct—pure possessive rage that I have no business feeling but can't seem to control.
When I reach their table, the man looks up. His eyes go wide the second he recognizes me. Good. He should be afraid.
"I believe you were leaving," I say. My voice comes out low and deadly. The kind of tone that makes men remember I've killed for less than what he just said to Elena.
He starts to scramble away from the table, but Elena grabs his hand before he can escape, looking directly at me with challenge in her eyes. "We aren't done with our conversation," she says, then begins stroking the back of his hand the same way he was touching her moments ago.
The deliberate provocation sends heat racing through my veins, but not the kind of heat that comes from anger. Elena wants to play games? We'll see who comes out on top.
I look back at the man, who now appears genuinely terrified. I give him a single nod in the direction of the door, and he practically runs toward the exit.
"Party pooper," Elena says with a little laugh that does absolutely nothing to improve my mood. She grabs a napkin from the dispenser and wipes her hand. Like she's removing something contaminated. The gesture should satisfy me—proof she found his touch as repulsive as I did. Instead it just pisses me off more. If she knew what he was, why the hell did she meet him here and let him touch her?
"Who was that, Elena?" I ask flatly, my irritation growing with every second of her petulant attitude.
"Oh, come on, Marco. Didn't you hear? I'm la sua puttana." She smirks and leans back in her chair like she's enjoying this entire situation. "So clearly he's my pimp. Il mio protettore, right?"
The way she throws those words around—using that bastard's phrase and then adding her own sarcastic twist—sends something dark and possessive surging through my chest. I've never known Elena to act promiscuous. Quite the opposite actually. This slutty behavior isn't her style and it sure as hell isn't mine. Elena has always been confident, which normally turns me on in ways I shouldn't admit. But not when it's directed at random men in seedy bars.
Stop it, Marco. Focus on the task at hand.
I haven't responded to her provocative comment yet, choosing instead to stand silent and imposing, hoping to intimidate her into dropping the act. But she seems completely unfazed by my presence, which is both irritating and oddly impressive.
"Let's go," I demand, stepping aside to give her room to get up from the chair.
"But I'm not done with my drink," she protests, her voice taking on a sultry tone. "And I was thinking of ordering some dinner. I'm craving to be filled with..."
"Get up. Now. Don't make me drag you out of here." The words come out harder than I intended, but Elena has a way of pushing buttons I didn't even know I had.
She stands up and starts to head for the bar, clearly intending to disobey me and test exactly how far she can push before I follow through on my threat. That's not happening.
