Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel(81)
She mumbles a fearful “okay” and slips out the door, shutting it behind her.
Closing me in with him.
He stands watching me for what feels like a very long minute, his hands pushed into his pockets and his expression unreadable. Despite his disclaimer, I am still completely on edge. I refuse to believe that it’s possible for mafia guys to be “delicate.” From all that I’ve seen, they don’t have much of a particular proclivity for handling issues using anything but muscles and intimidation. And to be sure, this guy has no shortage of both. Standing in front of me, I note both his muscles, taut beneath his finely-tailored suit, and his piercing, dark blue gaze.
“Have a seat, if you like,” he finally says, breaking the tension only slightly.
“Since this is my establishment and you are a guest, sir, I feel it’s only appropriate if I offer a chair to you first,” I reply sharply, before I can stop myself and edit my words. There goes my attitude. It’s a reflex, and one that has gotten me in trouble many times before.
He shuffles his feet and fixes me with a hawk-like stare and I fold my arms over my chest in silent response. It’s some kind of bravado stand-off. A few tense seconds pass and then, to my surprise, he steps past me to sit down on the couch. He crosses a leg wide over his lap and stretches both arms over the back of the couch, taking up as much room as possible. It’s a compromise — he sits down first, but he takes the best seat.
Still, I feel a little smug as I sit in one of the silky gold-embroidered chairs, crossing my legs and setting my hands in my lap before fixing him with an expectant look.
“Today you owe a debt,” he begins.
“And you’ve come to collect it,” I respond quietly.
“Not quite,” he answers, swiping a hand quickly over his mouth. “I know there is nothing for me to collect.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. I’m caught. “Not at the present moment, no. But hopefully soon I can get the money—”
“There is another option,” he interrupts. I furrow my brows at him and cross my arms over my chest as though it could slow my heart rate.
“Okay, I’m listening.”
I can tell he wants to smile, and I’m not sure whether to be relieved or frightened by it. Then he leans toward me and opens those full lips to say, “Be mine.”
I sit for a moment in dumbfounded silence. Then I stammer, “Wh-what?”
“For a year, I will own you.”
6
Katy
Fury gathers like storm clouds in my head. I want to stand up and scream at him in indignation, tell him to go to hell. But this time, something stops me from speaking my mind. It’s a sensation of resolve. It’s the feeling of being backed against a wall. What can I do but listen to the parameters of his offer? It’s not like I have any better alternatives off the top of my head.
“What do you mean?” I ask gravely.
He steeples his fingers and I am momentarily distracted by his big, strong hands. I wonder what kinds of things those hands have done, and in the back of my mind I can’t help but remember what they felt like on my skin…
“You will be my woman for a year, servant to my whims and desires. I will not hurt you, unless you want me to,” he adds. There’s that smile again, not on his lips, but lurking in his deep blue eyes.
“In what capacity will I ‘serve’ you?” I ask, trying to temper my sardonic tone.
“Sexually,” he replies simply, totally unabashed. I wonder if he’s made this kind of offer before. How often does this happen? Or am I the only girl currently being offered the ultimatum of “pay up now or become an indentured sex servant?” Perhaps he’s only mocking me.
“Are you serious?” I prompt.
“Absolutely.”
“How can I know that those thugs aren’t just going to show up later tonight and beat the hell out of me? How can I know for sure that you’re not just conning me?” I ramble all at once.
He holds up a hand to silence me. “I am a man of my word.”
“And you have the power to call them off?”
At that, the smile finally appears, lending some surprising warmth to his face.
“I have that power, yes.”
“And when I met you before — was that just part of the job? Staking me out, doing some reconnaissance before moving in for the kill?” I continue. His smile disappears as swiftly as it came, leaving him stony-faced.
“I do not kill,” he replies, his voice deep and serious, but there's something restrained in it.
Something shifts in the air and suddenly I feel goosebumps on my arms. I had only meant it as a turn of phrase, not literally. I open my mouth to say something — I don’t know what — but he quickly stands up to leave.