Page 128 of King of Omen

It was a breathtaking set-up, but I had no time for it.

Saint stalked toward one of the large executive offices at the end of the corridor.

He paused at one. ‘You,’ growling at Mauri, ‘inside here.’

‘Babe,’ came a soft, provocative voice.

Alessio, Mauri and I whipped around.

Saint, too, his eyes flaming, stern mouth softening.

For the woman who’d rolled up was a sight to behold.

She sported a feathered bob haircut, which framed a face so stunning and sultry that I was convinced she more than stopped traffic; she caused multiple vehicle collisions and pile-ups.

My woman was hotter, so this siren didn’t move my needle, but judging by Mauri and Alessio’s reaction, she was beautiful.

Regardless of her gear - jeans, sturdy boots, a plain shirt and a battered leather jacket - she resembled a model off a Paris runway.

Saint sliced a warning glance our way.

She was his, without a doubt, going by the soft peek she shot his way and the way his eyes smouldered when they hit her.

‘Doja, we have guests,’ Saint announced to her. ‘Didn’t get your names,’ he growled.

I reached a hand to his woman. ‘Lorenzo and Alessio Calibrese. The man moaning in pain is Mauri Russo, our consigliere.’

‘Mama, Mauri needs some patching up,’ Saint rasped, his voice shifting down a few gears into gruff emotion.

She smiled at us, then Mauri, who clutched his heart in a beauty-imposed angina. ‘With me.’

She led my second in charge away as Alessio fought to close his mouth again.

Saint raised a slow brow, which Alessio tagged with a swallow before we followed the man into a second glass-walled office.

The Sovereign man sat in a chair behind an expansive desk.

He waved a hand at the long wall alongside him. ‘Coffee, tea, refreshments. The bathrooms are at the end of the hall. I’ll be getting into it with my crew in the meantime.’

Dispatched, Alessio and I availed ourselves of some much-needed nourishment.

I poured myself a cup of strong black coffee and settled across from an intense Saint who was hunched over a computer, staring at a bank of screens.

I took a moment to gather my thoughts. Still, my hands wrapped around my mug trembled as I sipped on the hot liquid, unable to shake the unbidden images of Mia either injured, bound, and in the wind without me.

Alessio stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the horizon, lost in his musings. Normally a paragon of calm energy, even he appeared unsettled by the turn of events.

From my vantage point, I spotted Mauri seated on a leather couch in the adjacent room, his wounds being tended to by the stunning woman who’d left Alessio and Mauri dumbstruck.

She worked with precision and care, her movements confident and practised. Still, our consigliere’s pained groans filtered to us as she applied antiseptic.

I turned my attention to the urgent and hushed voices drifting from Saint’s desk, indicating that discussions were underway with an unseen crew.

After a few minutes, Saint glanced up, face grim. He motioned for us to join him at the workstation, where a map of Sydney was spread out with various locations marked.

‘CCTV shows the pair of assailants carrying Mia from the rear of her building and shoving her into the boot of your Range Rover.’

I sucked my teeth, holding back from growling out loud with frustration.

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