Page 42 of The Red Queen

Antonio said nothing at first, clearly deciding if he should answer, then he spat out, “Twenty-seven. What about you, stepmother? How old are you?”

Giovanni was fifty-three, so he’d had Antonio as a young man. Probably shortly after he’d married Antonia. Maybe during one of his visits back to Italy that Paulo had mentioned.

“Thirty-five,” she said absently. “Why are you here? I thought your father banned you from this club?”

“Heard you were in the city,” he admitted, his tone becoming more moderate. He’d clearly come for a confrontation but was finding himself off balance in her presence. “You’re younger than my father, you like em old?”

She laughed coolly. “Your father isn’t old, but I suppose young people don’t see the experience and vitality involved in aging as an asset. You will one day.”

She was purposely goading the younger man, making him sound young and inexperienced, unable to see the things an older person might see. She suspected it wasn’t his age causing his ignorance, but an inability to see past his own nose.

“I’m not that much younger than you!” he hurled back, colouring.

She raised a brow and said soothingly, as though to a young child, “Of course, Antonio, you are correct. Only a few years between us.”

His face took on the hue of an overripe tomato, and Desi would have cackled in glee if she could.

“Your plan won’t work,” he growled, pacing the small area in the club’s reception. He was hemmed in by one wall and four bodyguards. The club’s bouncers hovered nearby, ready to leap into the fray if necessary.

“And what plan is that?” Desi asked calmly.

“To marry my father, replace me with your child and take all his money.”

Desi laughed, though her anger grew at his comments. Replace him with her child? What kind of monster did he think she was? To use a child to grow her fortune? Still, she would use his false suppositions to her advantage if it meant crawling under his skin. “I don’t believe any part of this ‘plan’ is a secret. I fully intend to marry Giovanni, maybe pop out a child or two, and enjoy the luxuries your father’s money can buy us. Sounds like a pretty good plan to me.”

“I’ll stop you, you stupid bitch,” he snapped, taking a threatening step toward her.

“How will you do that?” she asked, her tone bored.

“I’ll find a way,” he snarled. “I’ll expose you to my father.”

He shoved a hand through his hair, and she noticed two missing fingers, the pointer and middle fingers of his right hand. She narrowed her eyes, examining where the cuts had been made. Precise, almost surgical. The wounds were freshly healed, pink and puckered at the ends.

She was sure there were many mobsters out there who liked to take fingers, but she knew one in particular who enjoyed that form of torture, and he’d been in Italy relatively recently. She took a step closer to Antonio, so the men wouldn’t hear her and so she could get a better look.

“You don’t need to expose me,” she said silkily, seductively.

He froze, his expression almost comical.

“Because your father knows exactly who I am, same as he knows exactly who you are.” She unwound her bandage, then pulled it off her hand, exposing the angry-looking scar. She held her hand up for him to see. “It would appear we have both crossed the new king of Miami.”

He looked taken aback. Same as she hadn’t noticed his missing fingers at their last meeting, he hadn’t noticed her bandage.

“You know the difference between you and me?” she asked, infusing steel into her silken tone.

“What’s that?” He tried to sound defiant, but she heard the curiosity in his tone. He was intrigued by her, exactly the way she wanted him. Lulling her prey into complacency before striking.

“I didn’t cry like a little bitch when he cut my finger off.” She stared at him with contempt. “I would bet your father’s fortune you screamed like theputapussy you are.”

He lunged for her before any of the men could get between them. Desi was prepared for it, hoping for it. She hungered for the fight. It was all she’d known for twenty-five years, and she’d been going through withdrawal in the tranquility of Giovanni’s home. His son was a good enough sport to assuage her thirst, because by throwing the first punch, he gave her free rein. She was only defending herself.

She moved with the punch, turning her head so it glanced off her chin. It hurt, would leave behind a bruise, but it didn’t break anything. She knew he wasn’t prepared for her retaliation, probably because he was used to his fist putting a woman on the floor. It was going to be a pleasure to hand his ass to him.

She recovered instantly, faster than Giovanni’s men could get over their shock. She used the momentum of Antonio’s hit to swing back around, sending her fist into his face. His nose gave way with a satisfying crunch, and he hit his knees, screaming in agony and clutching his face. Desi spun around, aiming a kick with her heel at his ear, but her tight skirt hampered the movement and she got him in the ribs instead.

“Dammit,” she complained as the muscle absorbed the blow.

Still, if his bellow was anything to go by, he’d certainly felt the kick.

---