Page 8 of Vendetta

His two men take this as their cue to leave and I watch them retreat, but Stevie doesn't move.

People underestimate Stevie. He may not look like much—short, bulky, and not threatening at all—but then again, neither does my uncle. Stevie is lethal when he needs to be. That's why my uncle keeps him close. That was why my father kept him close, too.

I throw a wary glance toward Stevie, unsure if I should speak about Leighton in front of him, but my uncle gets straight to the point.

“The girl?” he asks, not looking at me when he says it. He busies himself reading over the papers, the gory details of my family's demise.

“Third floor, the big bedroom,” I answer.

Stevie gives me a strange look and then exchanges a meaningful one with Frank. I feel like I just failed a test. “That isn’t exactly prisoner accommodations,” he says dryly.

“It’s secure,” I reply, keeping my voice flat.

“You know, I didn’t think you had it in you,” my uncle says, giving me a once over and nodding. “I wouldn't think you'd bring her here, straight to the vultures.”

I shouldn't have. Normally, I wouldn't have, either. I don’t give him an answer, and he doesn’t seem to expect one. He never does.

“She’s a looker, that Leighton Moore,” Stevie says, studying me. His gaze doesn’t waver. I want to squirm under it, but I stand still and lift my shoulder in a shrug.

“Her beauty doesn’t change her blood.”

Stevie chuckles, and it's a chilling sound.

“Don’t be swayed by her looks. She’s just a woman,” Frank says. “If you want to get her out of your system, then by all means, have at it. Butdon'tfuck this up.”

The fact that he assumes I’m attracted to her has me worried. Someone must have said something to give him that impression, because there's no way he knows me well enough to make that assumption by himself. Maybe one of his men has seen me eyeing her in the past, because God knows I've probably done it. I need to nip this in the bud before it goes any further.

“A pretty face is just a pretty face, you should know this better than anyone,” I say, keeping my expression serious. His face sours at my words.

Izzie, Frank's wife, had to be taken care of because Stevie had her followed and it turned out she worked for the Moores. My uncle didn't seem too broken-up about it, but who knows? I think, more than anything, his pride was wounded.

“That it is,” Stevie adds, as if he read my thoughts. Frank keeps his eyes locked to mine, searching for something. I hold his gaze, giving nothing away. Seemingly satisfied, he slides the papers my way across his desk, pointing with his fingers toward them. I take the papers, hoping my fingers don’t tremble, even though I read this over and over the night before.

Unidentified skeletal remains. Wedding rings. A red toy car. I read the words. I repeat them in my head so many times I start to feel sick.

“Thisis who she is,” he finally says, gesturing to the report. I nod, because I know what he's saying. She's a Moore, andthey're poisonous snakes. “I expect you'll handle it when the time comes.”

“Yes,” I say, but my voice falters. I clear my throat. “You have nothing to worry about; I'll take care of it.”

I don't know why I knock on her door before I unlock it. She's nowhere in sight but I hear the shower running. I put the bag of takeout down on the bedside table, and then sit in the chair in the corner.

I scan the familiar room. Nothing looks out of place, but I'm sure she turned it upside down trying to either find a way out, or something else to attack me with. It pissed me off this morning, but now I'm just amused. I'd never have thought of the mirror.

A couple of minutes later she walks out wearing a silky bathrobe, every curve of her body perfectly outlined in it, the hem reaching just under her ass. I should have gone and got her the clothes myself, because I'd never have picked out something so revealing. Her wet hair is hanging all the way to her waist. It’s a tangled mess of ebony as she runs her fingers through it, and then twists it up and over her shoulder. My fingers itch to follow hers.

Her back is turned to me and for a second I just take in the elegant way she moves, her feet making no sound as she makes her way across the room. My eyes trail up her toned calves and higher to the hem of the robe, hungry for more.

She stills for a moment when she sees the food, but she still doesn't acknowledge me at all. She unties the sash, letting the material fall down her shoulders. My eyes linger on the curve of her neck, and then follow the robe as it slips further down,revealing a body that could bring a man to his knees. She trails her fingers down her side, her every move so deliberate. I can almost feel her soft flesh under my fingertips as my eyes follow the path of her hands.

I hate what it does to me. I should never think of her body as something so perfect. I know there’s a reason I should just stand up and walk out of the room, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it is right now. I was always forgetful of things that matter in her presence.

I'm hard in less time than it takes me to get up and walk over to her. Somehow I find myself standing behind her as I tangle my fingers into her hair, pressing myself into her back. She spins around, placing her palms on my chest, and pins me with her icy blues, unashamed that all of her is flush against my body, the only thing separating us my clothes. Her hand fists my shirt, her gaze unwavering from mine. I recognize the look she’s giving me, daring me.Go on, she says with those eyes.Touch me.

I want to touch her, so bad.

I relax my fist in her hair, then clear my throat and avert my gaze, hating myself for this moment of sudden weakness. I inspect the white wall to my right while she releases me and walks over to the bed and puts some clothes on.

Game over.

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