Page 84 of Undone

He doesn’t answer. But walks past me expecting me to follow.

“Roque?”

That gets his attention. He stops. His fists clench by his sides. “Say it again?”

“What-Why?”

“My name.”

“Roque?”

His eyes shut. “Fuck, that sounds good falling from your lips.”

“No. Not again. I’m not falling for this again.” I brush past him, across the lobby and out the door—practically diving into the SUV idling at the curb just needing to get inside on my own terms; an attempt to pretend that I’m still in control.

He follows and the door shuts as his warm body presses to mine. “I wish I met you before he did. Whoever this man is—he’s a damn fool.”

“I agree. He was a fool.”

He seems amused by my denials that I’m attracted to him.

“I don’t date killers.”

“Noted.”

“Or mafia kings.”

His eyebrows lift. “That’s too bad, Lucille. You’re the first woman I’ve met in a long time who didn’t get on their knees for me.”

“That’s disgusting.”

He shrugs. “It’s the truth. Women either shake with fear in my company or get turned on by my power. It’s refreshing to meet a beautiful woman who seems… indifferent.”

“Do you need me to stroke your titanic ego? You’re hot, okay? But I’m still half-drunk, tired and don’t feel like pretending to be some happy bridesmaid, when I’m not. I want an aspirin and my bed. And wipe that smirk off your face—I think any man without bad teeth and a beer gut is hot. But your mafia—I don’t find that attractive… it’s a turn-off, actually, besides—I’m no longer making stupid choices when it comes to men.”

His light blue eyes practically glow in the dark as he stares at me. “Are you done?”

I cross my arms over my chest, refusing to be the first to look away. I won’t let the Don of the Salvatore family win this staring contest.

“Who says it would be stupid?” He grins.

“My gut instinct.”

“I really like you,” he replies, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

“Too bad.”

The tires roll to a stop. The line to get into the club extends behind a street corner, despite the extreme cold.

I shake my head.

I used to be one of them.

One of the many women standing on icy pavement, hoping Mr. Right is somewhere inside. I wish I could go back in time and tell my twenty-year-old-self to save my poor feet and the bills in my wallet.

Roque’s men in the car behind us get out first, make a secure wall, and open the door for us. “No. I can’t go in there dressed like this.”

“I’ll kill anyone who looks at you the wrong way.”

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