Page 35 of Impenitent Claim

“Touch me, and I snap your neck,” I growled.

He wisely dropped his hand.

I held the enchantress’s gaze for another half dozen breaths, before turning sharply on my heel and stalking away. If this victory tasted sweet, how much better would the end game be? Maybe I would celebrate tonight by blowing something up. If I learned one thing from the war camps of my youth, it was how to create an absolutely glorious fucking mess. The Rinaldi’s had a warehouse that was stocked full of illegal goods, just waiting for a malicious force like me to send it sky high. It was what they deserved for complicating my plans to kidnap their princess.

The stale, moist air of the locker room threatened to sap the sweetness of victory. I bent over the duffel bag, pawing through the mess for a shirt and gym shorts. My shoes were under the bench with my socks. I would shower and tend to my bruises and cuts back in the safety of my rental. But I faltered, foot slipping out of the shoe I tried to shove it into.

I couldn’t leave. Isabella was here.

There was a sudden urgency to watch over the rest of the fights. While mine had been a big draw, it wasn’t the headlining match tonight. It was unlikely the Italian boys would want to miss the final fights. And after those, would their evening end? There was still another hour or so before the afterparty. I groaned. Was I going to have to stay for that too? Those events were filled with cheap booze, hookers, and carnality. And not the good kind.

That was no place for the young members of the mob to be.

They had better take her home.

Wondering if I could contrive a way to end the night with some disaster that sent everyone scurrying for safety, I stepped back into the main space of the building. Instead of seeing the organizers for my winnings, I circled the perimeter. Few spectators hung around the edges. Those who did were engaged in backdoor deals or other nefarious business. Most crowded toward the center where the cage was constructed on a raised platform. It was standing room, save for the two bleachers, one on each side, where the wealthier patrons had seats.

Once I made a lap around the space, I settled into a spot along the far wall. From there, I could see the entirety of the one bleacher. And then, I watched her.

Isabella wasn’t looking at the fight. She was sliding glances between her brother and the young man sitting next to him. Although she wore a mask of indifference, the frequency of her looks told me she was invested in whatever conversation the lads were having.

She doesn’t even look at her fiancé.

I rolled my neck. Vertebrae popped, and relief flowed through the spine. Tonight hadn’t been about the winnings, although they were substantial. I needed the release before I did something crazy.

Like, destroying more of Isabella’s life.

What started as a simple kidnapping had quickly turned into a conflagration. I couldn’t steal Isabella away without making sure the Italian Mob didn’t follow. But when the restaurant went up in flames, the destruction felt so damn good that I proceeded to systematically break every aspect of her impending marriage.

It was my small revenge on her for daring to entertain the idea of marrying anyone else. But it wasn’t enough.

Now that I’d given into the call of the inner beast and beaten the shit out of an opponent, it was time to focus. I would orchestrate another scenario where I could place the deadlookalike and take Isabella for my own. The bought and paid-for body I’d acquired from the cremation schedule was still fresh enough that it would pass. But every day that I delayed was another that something could happen to the chilled corpse. Storing such a delicate item was far from easy. It didn’t matter how obscure the location was, there was always the chance she was discovered in the rental. I didn’t dare move her to a more remote location, because I might need her abruptly and couldn’t afford wasting time trying to grab her.

I had yet to come up with another plan.

Starting another fire was full of risks, but it was the best way to stage the narrative.

Isabella will have to live in hiding.There would be no contact with her past, including her brother. I didn’t have one by blood, but I could imagine it would be hard if I was torn from my bratva family and Dimitri. I would have to make it up to her and make the separation bearable.I pushed that thought away. It was a problem for the future. I would explain to her in no uncertain terms that her fiancé’s life was on the line if she didn’t cooperate. Watching them now, they might as well have been strangers. That made it easier, not seeing outright affection between the two. I doubted I would be able to control myself if she was hanging off him as any number of the women in this warehouse clung to their dates.

Isabella chose him. She left Chicago abruptly to be with him.

I growled.

In time, she would choose me. That line of reasoning made me the villain in this story, but I didn’t care. Isabella would be mine. That was the only acceptable conclusion.

Returning my gaze to her after sweeping the room yet again, I saw her fall still. A shiver vibrated her frame, and her gaze snapped across the warehouse. She was searching.You can feel me, little one.A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth asI stepped back, letting one of the steel pillars camouflage my body. Perhaps I would visit her tonight. There were still some gifts I hadn’t given her.

Just thinking of how annoyed she would be to find them, after expressly forbidding it, lifted my mood.

Isabella continued to watch the shadows, gaze flickering back and forth, but staying in this general area.

I was proud of her survival instincts. She could feel the predator and was aware that she was being watched.

A man with beady black eyes stepped in front of me. While I could easily see over his head, he clearly wanted my attention. It took everything in my power to resist connecting my fist with his nose for interrupting me.

“You fought well,” he said, sticking out his hand for me to shake.

I stared at him silently and unblinking. Not moving a damn muscle.

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