God, I hate him.
I watch the flicker of awareness cross his too-handsome face. The slow, calculated shift from cocky to controlled. His green eyes darken just a shade, like he’s filing away my words in that dangerous mind of his, ready to piece together the puzzle.
But I’m the missing piece. And he has no fucking clue.
“I said his name was Eoin,” I repeat, my voice sharper now. “You killed him in Belfast three months ago at Conall Quinlan’s estate. Is any of this ringing a bell?”
Matteo leans back against the edge of his desk, arms folding slowly like he’s lounging poolside instead of facing a woman with a gun. Cocky bastard.
“Right.” He drags the word out. “One of Quinlan’s guys. Tall, blond, bit of an attitude?”
My jaw tightens.
“He tried to kill my cousin’s wife. Did you know that about your precious fiancé?”
My teeth grind together. He’s only trying to distract me, just like he always could. I remain focused, the barrel poised at his head.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Trigger.” His voice dips, lazy and lethal. “I’ve ended a lot of bastards, but that one? That was business. You don’t mess with one of ours and live to tell the tale. Wrong place, wrongfamiglia.”
“You arrogant son of a?—”
He moves. Fast.
I squeeze the trigger, but he’s already inside the arc of my arm, knocking the gun sideways with one hand and spinning me into the desk with the other. The shot explodes into the ceiling, raining plaster. My breath catches, fury and panic colliding as his weight pins me back.
“Don’t—” I snarl, twisting and shoving against him, but he’s an immoveable wall, annoyingly strong.
“You done?” he murmurs into my ear, his warm breath sending goosebumps rippling down my arms. His grip is tight around my wrist as the gun clatters to the floor. He presses closer, his knee wedging between my thighs. I’m trapped between his disgustingly firm torso and the desk.
My breath catches. “Get off me,” I hiss.
“Not until I know you’re not about to shoot me again.”
His voice is low, teasing. Like this is a game. And maybe it is.
Because somehow, I’ve ended up pressed beneath him, my back to the desk, his body flush against mine. We’re hip to hip, chest to chest, and breath to breath.
Every cell in my body is screaming. Fight. Run. But my skin betrays me, humming with awareness. His scent, whiskey, cedar and heat, wraps around me like a memory even after all these years. For an instant, I’m back in Sicily with the boy who held my face in his hands and made promises he never meant to keep.
He still smells exactly the same. And I hate that I know that.
“Let me go,” I grit out.
His eyes rake over me, something unreadable flashing across that heated gaze. As if he’s searching for something or someone. “Have we met?”
A laugh bursts from my throat, raw and bitter. “God, you really don’t remember, do you?”
He blinks, confused. “Should I? In case you’ve forgotten, you’re wearing a mask. It makes it kind of hard to see your face.”
“You looked me in the eye one night and swore you’d never forget me.”
He hesitates, mouth curving.
To how many women has he vowed the same?
I take the opening and twist hard, kneeing him in the thigh, and shove him off balance. He grunts but doesn’t let go and we tumble sideways onto the carpeted floor, a tangle of limbs and curses.
Matteo lands on his back. I’m straddling him, breathless and wild-eyed, strands of newly dyed blonde hair spilling from my ponytail. His hands are still on my hips, on the silk fabric that hugs my curves.
