Red washes across my vision, a crimson tide that obliterates rational thought. No one touches what belongs to me. No. One.
I reach them just as Raven’s stiletto connects with the man’s shin, a vicious kick that makes me smile even as rage burns through my veins like gasoline.
He’s got his fingers dug into her arm hard enough to bruise her perfect skin, and he’s lifting his other hand to… hit her or restrain her, doesn’t matter which. That hand belongs to me now. Along with every fucking finger attached to it.
I grab his wrist, squeezing until I feel the delicate bones grind together. The satisfying little pop as something shifts out of place sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine.
“Big fucking mistake,” I snarl, spinning him around so fast his shoulder makes a clicking sound. The way his eyes widen—fear dawning like a beautiful sunrise—almost makes me hard. Almost.
“The fuck is your problem?” the man spits, trying to yank free. His attempts at bravado might be impressive if they weren’t so fucking pathetic. I don’t recognize him—not one of my regulars, not one of the known players from the other families.
“You,” I reply simply. Then, I drive my fist into his face.
The crunch of cartilage giving way sends a spike of endorphins flooding my system. Blood sprays in a beautiful arc—some of it spattering across my white shirt cuff, some across Raven’s arm. She doesn’t flinch. Interesting.
The man howls, hands flying to his ruined nose, blood pouring between his fingers like water through a broken dam. I shake out my hand, knuckles pleasantly stinging, and glance around the club.
Everyone is frozen, conversations dying mid-word, drinks paused halfway to lips. Good. Witnesses are what I need. Making an example establishes boundaries around Raven and reminds people that I’m watching.
“Rafe,” I call. My cousin nods once, already reading my intent before I speak. “Get this piece of shit up on the platform.”
He grabs the bleeding man by the collar and starts dragging him toward the stage, where the dancers have frozen mid-routine, half-naked and wide-eyed. The music cuts abruptly, leaving only the sounds of the man’s gurgling protests and the whispered tension of the crowd.
I turn to Raven, half-expecting her to be backing away, looking for exits. Instead, she’s watching with those dark eyes, something unreadable flickering in their depths. Not fear—something sharper.
Pushing my suit jacket off, I place it on her and she quickly wraps the much bigger jacket tight. “Come with me,” I tell her, taking her hand. It’s not a request.
She follows without hesitation, her fingers curling around mine with a pressure that suggests she’s holding on rather than being led. The sensation shoots straight to my cock.
The dancers scatter as we approach, stilettos clicking frantically against the polished stage. Someone cuts the regular lighting, replacing it with a single spotlight that creates a perfect circle of illumination at center stage.
The theatrics aren’t planned, but they’re perfect—turning punishment into performance art. Rafe forces the man to his knees in the spotlight, holding him in place with a hand on each shoulder. Blood continues to drip from his nose, pattering against the stage like obscene rainfall.
“You know who I am?” I ask, circling him slowly, enjoying the way he tries to track me without moving his head.
“Russo,” he mumbles through the blood. “Look, I didn’t know she was—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I cut him off, stopping directly in front of him. “Everyone knows. Everyone.” I raise my voice, addressing the silent club. “Don’t they?”
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the darkness beyond the spotlight. I turn back to the kneeling man, smiling in a way that makes his eyes widen further. “Now you’re going to apologize to her.”
He looks at Raven, who’s standing just at the edge of the spotlight, pink hair gleaming, dark eyes unreadable. “I’m sorry,” he croaks.
“For what?” I prompt, enjoying the game now.
“For touching you,” the man says to Raven, voice thick with blood and fear. “For grabbing your arm. I’m sorry.”
Raven steps forward into the spotlight, her face illuminated in harsh white light that somehow makes her more beautiful, not less. “You’re an asshole,” she hisses, her voice carrying clearly across the hushed room. “No means fucking no.” I can’ttell whether I’m surprised or turned on when she spits at the kneeling man.
“Did you tell him no?” I ask her softly.
Raven nods sharply. “I told him to let me go, and he wouldn’t.” Her gaze darts toward the stranger. “That’s why I kicked him. He’s just lucky I didn’t get his balls.”
Fuck, my Little Thief is built to bring men to their knees.
I reach into my pocket and withdraw a silver case. A custom-made gift from Remus. The club falls even more silent, if that’s possible, as I open it to reveal what looks like an elegant cigar cutter—except the opening is wider, the mechanism heavier.
“Since you didn’t respect my woman telling you no,” I say conversationally, “it’s my turn.”
