His voice was tight. Irritated. He thoughtIhadn’t been listening. He’d been daydreaming about Maria just moments before.
I turned back to the Made man across from us, a soldier of the DeMones, on theme with a white suit, who’d been talking my ear off for the past twenty minutes about some new drug on the market.
“I’ll look into it. But I’m not selling anything experimental.”
He nodded. “I’ll let my Boss know.”
For a moment I wondered if he was talking about Don DeMone or Francesca.
Zach walked away without another word. I watched after him for a while as he met Maria half-way by the bar.
He was still angry. I understood why. I hadn’t been around for him after our parents passed. He was six at the time; I was sixteen. I sent him to New York to keep him safe, while I stayed behind in Tijuana to rebuild our father’s empire.
I hadn’t meant to make him feel abandoned, though now, at thirty-four, I knew I’d made a mistake. Still, it’d been the best choice for him that I could make at the time.
My eyes scanned the rooftop and everyone’s matching outfits. The DeMone’s annual end-of-summer-white-party or some shit had the underworld and the socialites together.
My gaze landed on Zach again, only to find him making out with Maria by the bar. I rolled my eyes, turning back to the party.
I paused when I saw Francesca was walking toward me with a determination in her eyes that made my chest growl. My brow raised as my gaze unwillingly dropped, giving her a one-over.
Goddamn,she looked criminal in that dress…
There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t curated, from the top of her perfectly styled hair to her crimson pedicure poking out of her open heeled sandals.
She stopped in front of me, crossing her arms and flipping her hair to make a point and bring my attention back to her face.
“Princesa…” I smirked at the way she tried to intimidate me with her proximity – the way the wind was fluttering the hem of my shirt, and grazing her with it. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“This new drug,” –She ignored me– “I don’t like it.”
Donna it is…
I ran a hand over my jaw to hide my smirk.
I’d recently come to learn not a lot of people liked Francesca DeMone.
She shared the same qualities most Dons I’d come across. Direct. Violent. No bullshit.
But she was also intelligent, beautiful and unapologetic.
And that was what actually pissed people off. That she was breaking boundaries and challenging stereotypes.
ADonnawasn’t as common to come across in our world, but not unheard of. I actually preferred doing business with women more. I founded they tended to make better leaders, respect deadlines and be better strategists.
She stood there, fire in her eyes, her arms crossed like she owned the room.
Like she ownedme.
I let my gaze linger on her mouth, the way her lipstick caught the golden light spilling from the chandeliers overhead. The bass from the party thumped faintly through the walls, laughter and conversation layering behind us, but she commanded my full attention.
“Princesa,” I drawled, leaning just a little closer, enough for her perfume – dark jasmine, smoke, something sinful – to reach me. “If you start a sentence that way, I might think you’re worried about me.”
“I’m worried about my business. Not you.”
I traced my bottom lip with my thumb, enjoying the way her glare deepened when I smiled. “So fierce and passionate… You’d make a man think you were married to your empire instead of… Single.”
My eyes dragged lazily over her, deliberate, lingering on the delicate line of her throat before returning to those fire-lit eyes.
