Page 3 of Vicious Vows

“DeSantis…” The name rolls off my tongue as I say it a few times, wondering what a jewelry store owner would be doing trying to siphon money from my accounts. I know I’ve sent my guys to every business we work through in the past two months a few times. Maybe he got spooked? Or maybe he thinks I’m weaker than my old man since I haven’t shown my face yet. I’m too busy to do these visits myself, what with trying to bring the entire casino into the Twenty-First Century and all.

“Bring him in here.” I drop the tablet onto my desk and push it away. The hollow thud echoes around the mostly empty room. I spend most of my time at my home office now, and I haven’t even had a chance to redecorate or add my touch to Dad’s space here.

“Yes, sir,” he replies and then turns and walks out the door.

I drum my fingers across the smooth wood of the desk as I wait. I’m not pleased about having to spill blood in this office so soon after Dad’s death, but this DeSantis fellow will prove to be a decent example to anyone else who thinks of crossing me. I’m not sure if it’s the shop owner or his son—I heard he has a son—but either one will do. I just want my money back. And I want everyone who does business with me to know I’m more ruthless than my father.

Restless and agitated, I fight the urge to march down to the floor and out to the back parking lot, eager to confront the situation head on. But I rein in my impulses and remain seated, determined to make a power move like I've seen my father do countless times before. He never chased after people. They always came to him. And now, I'll make them come to me as well. The tension in the room is palpable, like a weight pressing down on my shoulders. I wait for the inevitable showdown, willing myself to maintain control and composure.

When the door swings open, I turn my eyes to watch, thinking I’ll see a bedraggled older man who begs for his life. Instead, I see something I don’t expect. A young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, with jet-black hair and stunning blue eyes stumbles through the door, pushed by someone behind her. Mark and Tony follow her in, shoulder to shoulder. Mark carries a bag in his hand about the size of a laptop—the type of tool she’d need to do her hacking.

“Well, Ms. DeSantis, I assume?” I stand and button my jacket, tucking my navy blue tie inside.

She yanks her arm away from Mark’s grasp and pushes her long black hair out of her face. The waves frame her porcelain skin perfectly. Heart-shaped lips draw up into an angry scowl, and all I can think is how gorgeous she is. Her T-shirt hugs her curves, revealing a nice rack, and the jeans she wears hug her thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination.

“Let me go, you sick fuck.” Her eyes dart around the room frantically. She’s looking for a way out, some escape from my fury that’s hidden from view, but she’ll find nothing. The only way out is through the door she entered, and Vic stands there with his shoulders squared and his arms folded over his barrel chest.

“Given how fond you are of my company and its resources, I thought you’d be happier to meet me.” With a flick of a hand, I dismiss my men. Mark sets the computer bag on my desk and the men retreat, shutting the door behind themselves. I’m sure they probably think I’m crazy. Maybe they expected me to put on a show for them, and maybe I should have.

But this shocking turn of events makes me want this privacy with her for the moment. She’s brilliant behind a keyboard, stunningto look at, and I bet her pussy feels as good as I imagine it does. She might make good arm candy if she can be tamed into submission, but as feisty as she seems—which, don’t get me wrong, I like it—she may give me a run for my money. This is the sort of woman I see myself with, and since she owes me a substantial debt, I may just own her.

“Why would I be happy to meet the man who controls my father like a pet? You’re a piece of trash, you know? Men like you deserve the chair.” Micah runs a hand through her hair, and I see her eyes dart to the computer bag on my desk. She’s making a plan to run, but she won’t get far. Not with my three best men on the other side of that door.

“Please, sit.” I’m very interested in her now. I fully expected a twenty-something man right out of college, trying to make a power play. Not her, not this. I gesture at the uncomfortable red sofa I haven’t had time to remove and move in that direction. She glances at the computer bag and glares at me.

“Let me go. I have no interest in speaking with you.” I watch her hastily march over to the desk and pick up her laptop and waltz toward the door, thinking she’s going to walk right out of here, but she turns around quickly when Vic points his gun at her and shuts the door again. “You can’t keep me here. I have rights.”

“You have nerve. I’ll give you that.” I sit on the couch and pat the cushion next to me. There are so many things I could do with her talent and spunk. So many things I could do to that body, too. “But unless you return my money, you belong to me.”

“You can’t do that.” She waves her arms around and then drops them to her sides, and then her hands slap her thighs. “Let me go.”

She’s going to be difficult. I like a challenge. “Mark!” I shout, and in less than a second, he’s in the doorway with the door open, ready for my commands. My men are trained to be at my beck and call at all times. I never wait more than a few seconds for a reply.

“Take her to the house. Put her in the room and lock it. She’ll learn or she’ll pay.” I fold my hands together in my lap and cross one leg over the other as I watch her struggle against his grasp. “Oh, and take her computer too. No need for her to be able to steal more of my money.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, snatching her computer away from her gasp as she screams profanities and pummels his chest with her fists.

Poor thing has spent all her time building up her intelligence and skill and zero time strengthening her body. She’ll regret that. And I’ll capitalize on all of it. I just have to decide how to go about it. Micah DeSantis is my new lucky charm, and she doesn’t even know it yet.

3

MICAH

The meathead Luke Santoro put in charge of me manhandles me like I’m an object and not a human being. He conveniently drags me downstairs and out the back door, careful to avoid any casino patrons on the way, while his buddies clear the way and follow behind us to make sure I don’t slip away. I’m not even dangerous. It’s not like I’m going to steal a gun and kill someone. I just use my computer to write code and move money.

“Fucking let me go!” I pound at his arms, but he’s relentless. He tosses me into the trunk of a car, not even the fucking back seat like before, and I’m plunged into darkness.

The car bumps along the roads going God only knows where, wherever “the house” is. That’s what Luke called it. Probably his house, probably hidden somewhere so his enemies don’t learn where he lives and threaten him. I’m sure he has enemies. A man like that doesn’t make friends easily unless the person is intimidated or terrified of him.

My head smacks something hard, and I wince and shut my eyes as my hand shoots up to cover the sore spot. Luke Santoroisn’t who I thought he was. When Dad told me the old man—Giancarlo Santoro, Luke’s father—had suddenly died, I thought they’d gotten one of his brothers to take over. I expected the man in charge to be my father’s age or older. Not some hot playboy in his thirties.

I pound the bottom side of the trunk and scream out for help, but out on the highway or city street, there isn’t a chance in hell someone will ever hear me. I’m just bruising my own hand and making my voice hoarse for no reason. I relax and fold my arms over my chest and wait.

We drive long enough that I almost fall asleep, stopping a few places, where I manage to bang on the trunk. Still, no one comes to help me, and I don’t know if they’ll ever let me out of here. I even pull my cell out of my pocket and attempt a call, but there is no service. I don’t know if it’s from the metal box I’m in or the location in the city. I jam my phone back into my pocket and lie here seething.

Finally, after what seems like hours, the car stops and the trunk pops. I waste no time pushing it up and bolting out of the trunk. The latch scrapes my back, and I only make it a few stumbled steps before I slam into the broad chest of yet another black-clad man. This one has tattoos all the way down both arms and a few on his face to match, and he doesn’t look happy.

“Take her to the room, Vic,” one of the men from the car orders, and Vic grunts and jerks his head upward. It’s a smug gesture with so much left unsaid, yet everyone knows what it means. His hands latch onto me in a fierce grip that threatens to stain my skin blue and purple with bruises.

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