The only response is a brief bunching of his eyebrows, quickly smoothed over. He doesn’t look up.
I lean forward, reducing the space between us. “When I give you an order, you obey.” I reach out and grasp his chin, forcing his face toward mine. “Look. At. Me.”
Those golden eyes finally meet mine, filled with speculation and a hint of fear that makes them almost gleam in the darkness. And there’s something else, too. A spark of defiance that revs up my motor just right.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask, still holding his face.
“You’ve been following me.” His voice is surprisingly steady. “And you—you protected me from that guy who was after me in the subway.”
Protected him? Sweet that he thinks that. And naive. “And what else?”
“You’re a Giuliano,” he says, eyes dropping to my hand. “High up, based on how everyone reacts to you—and based on how much you spent back there. A senior Capo. Or…” His eyes travel over me, taking in my chest, my arms. “Enforcer,” he says with finality.
So he’s observant. Clever. But his mind won’t save him now.
“What else am I?” I go on. He shrugs. I slide my hand from his chin to his throat, feeling his pulse racing beneath my palm again. It’s almost addictive. “I’m your goddamn savior,” I tell him. “And I’m not just talking about that fucker who was following you. I’m talking about tonight. You got any idea who parties at the Obelisk? I’m just about the best of them, and that ain’t saying much.”
There’s that defiance again, as he lifts his chin. “Then this must be fate,” he says coolly.
I’ll enjoy stripping him of that sarcastic shield. “My thoughts exactly. I’m Damiano Orsini.”
He gives a slightly sardonic, “Nice to meet you.” No other reaction at all.
“Your father killed mine,” I go on, so casually that it takes a moment for my meaning to hit him.
Confusion, followed by understanding…then a flash of stark terror that he tries to hide.
“It was twenty-one years ago. I was thirteen,” I tell him, staring him down. “Thirteen years old when I found my father with his throat slit, bleeding out on our kitchen floor, and Cesario Clemenza standing over him with the knife.” The memory blazes through my mind again despite myself. Blood spreading across tiles, my father’s eyes finding mine, his lips moving in a final warning I couldn’t hear.
“Ididn’t—” he starts to protest.
I tighten my hand, cutting off his words. “You’re his son. Close enough. And now you belong to me.”
“For one year,” he croaks. “And you can’t kill me.”
He’s trying to be brave. Cute. “One year,” I agree. “Do you know what I can do to you in one year, golden boy?”
He tries to pull away, but I grip him harder.
“Everything,” I promise. “I plan to doeverythingto you. Break you in ways that will never show. Remake you. Own you.” I release his throat at last to slide my hand into his hair, gripping the silky strands. “By the time I’m done with you, you won’t even remember your own name.”
A small, shuddery sigh escapes him. It strikes something deep inside me, something in the back of my brain, like the perfect harmony to some forgotten tune. I jerk my hand away from him.
What the fuck was that?
It’s just physical attraction. Basic biology. The Clemenza is too pretty for his own good, and I haven’t touched anyone in months. Of course my body responds.
It wasn’t anything more than that.
CHAPTER 9
CALIGULA
The manwho bought me for ten million dollars—Damiano Orsini, ruthless Enforcer for the Giulianos and possibly the man who has hunted my Family to the brink of extinction—settles back on the opposite seat. He practically takes up the leather seating, thick thighs spreading wide in that dominant “I own this space” posture that makes me feel like a hamster huddled up opposite him.
The survival instinct that developed in me during my time on the streets makes me watchful and quiet. Because the ghost of his hand around my throat still burns, a phantom reminder that I now belong to this…this human mountain.
I should’ve taken my chances with the Russian.
