Page 59 of Vicious Souls

Kingsley whips her head in my direction, her face flaming like she’s been insulted.

“I can take care of my own clothes,” she gasps.

“If you want to succeed in our world, you’ll have to dress the part, Kingsley. No one will take you seriously otherwise, and you’ll be fair game.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she snaps, running a hand through her hair as she rises and strides to the window. The late afternoon sun provides a halo against her head as she looks out over the city, saying nothing for endless minutes. When she finally turns around, her bottom lip is pulled between her teeth as she gnaws at her skin, considering us one by one. It is my father who rises and shuffles toward her, putting a delicate hand to her arm. I envy him that.

“Kingsley, your father wouldn’t have insisted you take your place as head of the family if he didn’t think you capable. It’s time you showed the world what this Murray is made of.”

53

KINGSLEY

“Find your balance. Arms extended. Widen your stance.”

“Is this necessary? Why do I have to do this if we’ve hired all these people to look after me?”

I sound whiney even to my own ears. Which is something I’ve never been.

Dante shoots me an exasperated sigh, then moves in behind me, standing so close, I can feel his breath on my neck. He raises his arms to cover mine and starts firing off more instructions.

“Hold your arms straight, hands firm around the gun. Left leg back, right foot forward.”

He moves closer and removes one of his arms, letting it fall to my waist. He puts a leg between mine and pushes my feet apart. In doing so, he has plastered his chest against my back. I can feel, even between the layers of fabric between us, the ridges of muscle that zigzag across his chest. Even the arm that holds mine, steadying my shooting hand, feels like concrete the way it wraps around my body. My breath catches. My heart aches. My soul burns. I can’t understand why he is so insistent on me learning to shoot a gun, but I’ve decided to humor him, hoping that when he sees how hopeless I am at handling a firearm, he’ll abandon that idea. If anything, it has made him more determined in his insistence on teaching me. And boy, does the man have patience when it comes to teaching me how to shoot.

With his arms still around me, I fire off a few shots, always missing the target when the bullets ricochet off a nearby rock.

“Getting better,” he says, reloading the gun and handing it to me. He steps away. “Now, on your own. “I’m watching.”

I go again, my aim this time better, encouraged by Dante’s promise of lunch sooner rather than later if I manage to hit the target. He keeps reloading the gun and handing it to me to keep practicing until I get the target. After four hours of practice, I finally hit the target twice, my stance is balanced and firm, and I am actually enjoying the exercise.

“We should go hunting,” I tell him, my voice full of excitement.

“There’s plenty of things we should do, King, but hunting is definitely not one of them.”

* * *

New York isfull of charming little Italian restaurants, but none more so than Papa Gino’s, which is nothing more than a hole in the wall that opens up to a casual dining space of epic proportions.

“Why is it so empty?” I ask, as Dante guides me to a corner table.

“They don’t open until five. The chef was kind enough to do me a favor and accommodate us for lunch.”

“That’s generous of him,” I say, frowning. I can’t imagine what sort of a favor a chef owes Dante.

He pulls out a chair for me and we sit, my eyes swiveling around the cozy restaurant as the amazing smell of basil and garlic wafts through the air. I close my eyes and inhale the rich aroma, allowing it to assault all my senses. When I re-open my eyes, Dante has his glistening honey toned eyes fixed on my face, untold emotions flickering within them. I can never tell what he’s thinking, but just the way he looks at me is enough to undo me.

“What?” I ask, looking around me self consciously. He always manages to make me feel uncomfortable with the way his eyes caress me, and I know this has more to do with me not being able to read him. I have made a life for myself out of reading others, but when it comes to Dante, I always draw a blank.

“The fact that you’re a bundle of contradictions.”

I cock my head and wait for an explanation. He takes a sip of his wine then sets the glass back down, taking his time. It seems he is intent on making me wait. I like this version of Dante. The calm, relaxed, laidback man with a casual air about him. And Dante wearing black – don’t even go there. His signature dress code lately has been black slacks and a black shirt. Today he wears a turtleneck, which does nothing but direct my attention to his throat, or what little of it I can see.

“Kingsley the Chameleon,” he finally says, smiling to himself. He looks up at me, regards me with eyes blazing with curiosity, then licks his lips in a way that makes me want to jump out from my seat and right into his lap. I have to force my hands to the side of my chair just to keep myself grounded.

“You slayed in the club as a poker playing diva. You held your own as a man was about to rape you then showed your claws when you got away from him.Thenyou fiercely refused a rideto safety even when you stood in the dark in the middle of nowhere. And had the balls to steal my car…” he stops and chuckles to himself, and I know he is remembering something, because his face lights up at his next words. “You somehow fooled many, many men into thinking you were a boy, then pissed the shit out of Marco, who I know for a fact is not the easiest person to piss off. You swam half naked in my pool and sent my soldiers into meltdown, then you defied gravity and sent yourself hurtling to the ground trying to help me save you from a rogue madman. Oh, and did I mention you can shoot? All that, and now you sit here in this restaurant, looking like you just had an orgasm inhaling the smell of garlic. I told you… contradictions.”

“It’s the little things, Dante,” I tell him, feeling a blush rise up my neck at his words. “The little things.”

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