Page 14 of Devil’s Promise

But I can’t afford to lose myself here. Dirtying up the Upper East Side virgin is only a side benefit.

The main event is getting New York under my control. And the other families. They won’t come easily, which means I need to keep my little wifey in her place.

I let go of her neck and pull my thumb from between her lips. I’ll have to finish this tonight. Because downstairs, I’ve got work to do.

“Candy will be up for your waxing,” I tell her. “I’ll send her with dinner. There is a bed in the other room. I work late, so we won’t be leaving until three, four in the morning. Get some sleep while you wait.”

She looks up at me, her expression blank again.

“You understand everything I just said?”

She gives a tight nod.

“And you will do as I say.”

Nothing. Her expression remains blank. She doesn’t nod.

So that’s how it is. She’ll suck what I want her to suck, but when it comes to some verbal contract, she won’t enter.

Gotta be honest. It’s not a bad strategy.

I bend over, my face coming right down to her face. “Want to know why I’m called the Devil of New York?”

She shakes her head no.

One corner of my mouth tugs up. Who knew that a mute girl could be sassy?

“It’s the number of bodies I’ve laid in the ground. I’m not a good man.”

She nods yes. Finally, she agrees with something I’ve said.

“And I’m sure you’re eager to live through all of this—” She shakes her head no, her eyes filling with that fire again. I go still as I look down at her.

I saw how her father treated her today. Honestly, it’s nothing compared to what my adoptive father and Vigo would do to us regularly. But we’re men…

I drop down on my haunches again, my face now just below hers. “You don’t want to live, princess?”

She shakes her head no again. Then she brings her pinched forefinger and thumb to the palm of her other hand pretending to write.

For a moment, I stare, not understanding. Then I realize she’s asking for a pen and paper.

Not something I have up here, and I’m not certain I want to indulge any of her requests. I make the rules, not the other way around.

But I did just ask her a question, and I’d like her answer.

So I pull my phone from my pocket and open it, pulling up the notes. Then I give it to her.

Her eyes flick down to it before she gently takes it from my hand. Her fingers look delicate and dexterous as they fly over the digital keypad. She hands it back to me.

I don’t care about death. There isn’t much to live for.

I grunt as I read it. “I should have known you were going to be a drama queen.”

She glares—glares—at me as she snatches the phone back from my hand. She furiously types and then hands it back.

I’m not being dramatic. Go ahead. Kill me now, Devil.

I’ve got to give her points for style. But I need her alive. And what’s more, I’ve learned some important information about my little wifey. She’s not afraid of death. And I know she can tolerate pain.