Page 325 of Vicious Temptation

“Should I be nervous?”

The edge of his mouth tips up into a smug smile. “Most women are around me.”

I take another sip of wine. “Maybe you spend time with the wrong women.”

The mask slips from his face.

Around us, the restaurant hums with conversation, crystal glasses catching candlelight and silverware tapping against porcelain as a couple laughs at a table near the windows, completely unaware of the men positioned near both exits.

They’re his men. Mine are nowhere to be seen, but that’s how I prefer it.

Bianchi leans forward. “You have a smart mouth.”

“It’s the same one you’ve been staring at all night.”

Jaw clenching, his expression darkens, as if he still doesn’t know what to make of me. His pride is at war with his need to sink his pathetic cock into something tonight, not that he’d bother playing nice just to take what he already feels entitled to.

I lower my glass and cross one leg over the other beneath the table. A lioness doesn’t need to bare her teeth every time something strays too close. Sometimes it’s more entertaining to let the prey think it’s safe.

He suddenly reaches across the table and wraps his fingers around my wrist. I glance down, then slowly lift my gaze back to his.

“I’ll ask you once, and only once, to remove your hand.”

The bastard laughs at the warning and tightens his grip. “You came here because I paid for your time.”

“No, I came here because you were stupid enough to invite me.”

Confusion crosses his face until his attention shifts downward, but it’s too late. My blade is already beneath his ribs before he can make a sound.

His lips part, and I keep my voice low so no one beyond our booth can hear me.

“You really should have paid more attention, Mr. Bianchi.”

His brow furrows as he searches my face, trying to understand how badly he misjudged me.

“W-Who the fuck are you?”

I lean closer. “Odette Drakos.”

His eyes widen with recognition, and the fear he’s spent all night concealing surfaces as I twist the knife.

Whatever he tries to say becomes nothing more than a wet gurgle as blood fills his mouth and spills over his bottom lip. Only then does he release me, and I watch the last of his manufactured confidence fade from his face.

“My father sends his regards. Consider your debt settled.”

Pulling the blade free, I wipe it on the inside of his jacket, then rise from the table. To anyone looking from across the restaurant, Bianchi could almost be drunk, slumped against the seat with his chin dropping toward his chest.

Almost.

I smooth a hand over my dress and head for the exit, everything having gone exactly according to plan.

Of course that lasts about ten seconds.

One of his men near the door looks toward the booth, and his body stiffens.

“Boss?”

I keep walking, and I can almost sense the moment his attention shifts to me, then to the blood spreading across the white tablecloth.