Wiping the blood from my nose, I take the door to the east wing of the house. My wing. Stripping out of my shirt, I toss it aside and admire the red and purple mark on my stomach. Just the shape of her heel.
“You bitch,” I chuckle as I step into the bathroom.
Just as I’m cleaning my face, my cell rings in my pocket. It’s Dad, calling from the main house. “Yeah?”
“Family meeting,” he says. Gee, didn’t see that coming…
“On my way.”
I hang up, go to my room and grab a sweatshirt, then make my way to the central wing of the manor. Dad likes to keep it in what he calls “classical style,” meaning it looks and feels like a Renaissance museum.
Massive paintings, sculptures, vases—I can’t even imagine what our family’s art collection might be worth. Personally, I prefer a more minimalist, modern touch.
Dad’s sitting at his desk in his office like a cartoon image of a mafia boss, flanked by Kane and two of his personal bodyguards. He’s puffing a Cuban and sipping scotch as I enter. Seeing my nose, he raises his chin.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” I reply, waving my hand. “Just a little scuffle.”
He stands, strides over, grabs me by the chin, and examines me. “Uh huh.” He’s not buying it.
Does he already know about the fight? I glance at Kane, but he shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. Nah, he wouldn’t snitch. Word just travels fast in this town.
It’s been ten years since I grew taller than my dad, but he’s still the leader of the family, and the look in his eyes has me worried.
He’s either pissed at me for getting into a fight or pissed that someone put hands on his son. Probably both. But he’s stiff and doesn’t have his normal jazz music playing in the background.
“Where’s the tunes?” I ask in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension as I move to the record player.
“Sit down,” he says firmly. I lick my top teeth before turning. My dad is theonlyperson in the world who I’d let speak to me that way.
I glance at him, pour myself a scotch, then take a seat. He doesn’t even smile—he just motions to one of his men on the other side of the room.
The man opens the door to the west wing, and my stomach turns.
Valeria Noir enters, flanked by men in dark suits. Beside her, cheeks still red from tonight’s encounter, is her daughter Sable.
My chest tightens, and I reach for my gun, but my father stops me with a single lift of his hand.
The Noir family marches in like they own the place. I’m instantly on my feet, beads of sweat forming on my chest, ready for anything.
“What the hell is this?” I bark.
“Everyone relax,” Dad says. “This is Valeria Noir and her daughter, Sable. They are here on my invitation.”
My jaw almost falls off as he walks over to Valeria, takes her hand, and gently kisses it like we’re back in medieval times.
From behind her mom, Sable arrogantly flashes her teeth at me. She stands tall, all curves, unrepentant, dripping with wealth and oozing sex appeal. Her elegant black dress and gold earrings make her look like she belongs here…
…like she owns the place.
Our eyes lock. Another mind-fuck kick to the gut. I remember our fight—the way she faced off with me—it was almost like a dance. A dance that has blood rushing to my cock as I replay it in my mind.
Every woman in Chicago knows who I am and wants something from me. Sable looks at me like I’m furniture.
In fact, she pulls her phone from her purse and starts scrolling, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here.
I want to grab her by the hair and force her eyes to mine. Tear the neckline of her dress and get a look at those plump tits hidden underneath.
