Page 48 of Claimed By the Possessive Mafia Prince
“I’ll keep my PJs on, don’t worry.”
“You say that like I don’t have to use every ounce of willpower to resist you when you’re wearing those PJs.”
I roll my eyes. It feels fake, forced.
Lying down, my body hums with a contented sensation that feels new.
I’m not sure how long I lie here, wondering if sleep will ever come, before I finally drift off. In my dreams, nothing is complicated. I lie in a large bed on silk sheets, smiling up at Dario as he strokes his hand through my hair.I knew the moment I saw you…
I wake to the sound of a ringing phone, stand up, half asleep, and find the source of the noise. I answer it without thinking, without realizing it isn’t my cellphone.
“If you don’t do what we want, we’ll find you, motherfucker.”
I suck in a breath.
“We’ll find you and we’ll slit your thr?—”
Dario snatches the phone from my hand. He’s standing in just his underwear, and he looks pissed. His expression is unlike anything I’ve seen on his face before. His broad chest rises and falls with almost violent urgency.
He brings the phone to his ear. “I’ll call you back.”
Hanging up, he glares at me.
“Who was that?” I demand.
“Why are you answering my phone?”
“I asked you first.”
“That’s not how this works,” he grunts.
“They said they were going to slit my throat–well, your throat. They thought it was you. Who would say something like that? And why? What the hell, Dario?”
“One of my clients is pissed at losing his investment. Now he thinks he can threaten me to get his cash back. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
He’s evasive, turning away, unable to meet my gaze.
Is he lying to me?
“Your clients for your finance job? What are you–an investor? A stockbroker? A hedge fund manager?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Something like that.”
“Dario!”
He spins on me. “You don’t need to worry about this,” he snaps. “Some asshole is calling me and talking a bunch of crap. That’s it. The end. It’s not your concern.”
I move away from him. “Okay, fair point.”
“Siena, I didn’t mean to snap.”
I hold my hands up when he approaches me. “No, you’re right. This is none of my business. I’m getting overfamiliar.”
“Overfamiliar,” he repeats, shaking his head. “After last night?—”
