Page 39 of Broken Mafia Prince
His cerulean-blue eyes narrow dangerously, but I pretend not to notice. Finally, I snap my fingers with exaggerated delight and sarcasm. “How about a million ‘no way in hell’? Does that work for you?”
“One hundred thousand.” He ignores my goading. “That should be more than enough to cover the expenses and the slight inconvenience.”
“Nothing can cover the cost of my time,” I retort, a fake smile plastered on my face. “Or the stench of BO and hairspray you’ll leave behind. Maybe you should try flying commercial, that is, if your ego can fit in with all of the other passengers.”
The large, bald guard who had been keeping me from climbing up my plane stares at me with wide, horrified eyes. His silent plea is clear:Stop. You’re playing with fire.
“Two hundred thousand,” the dark-haired man says coolly, ignoring my jabs. “That’s my final offer. Give him your bank details and?—”
“I prefer cash,” I cut in, unable to resist.
His eyes narrow further, the blue of them darkening like a storm brewing over the Mediterranean. I find myself enjoying his irritation more than I should. Am I bored, reckless, or both? Or maybe it’s much more complicated than that; maybe I’m eager to keep his interest and force him to remember me.
It’s crazy; I should want no part of him, or this. I should be running as far from him as possible, but all I want to do is step close and run my fingers over where the familiar mark used to be.
“Get her the money,” he orders.
The bald man’s head swings between us in surprise, but he hurries away a moment later to carry out the command. While we wait, I try not to stare at the suited man, distracting myself by idly messing around on my phone. I can feel his gaze on me, though, like a drill boring holes into me. It’s intense, like a physical presence, and it sets every nerve on edge.
I check my watch and tap my foot like I’m in a hurry, though I’m dreading the moment I’ll return to Chicago. To him. To my father. For my own sanity, I need to be endless miles away from him. I’ve been plotting my escape for years, and as soon as I can, I’ll pack up and disappear, putting miles of ocean and sky between us.
The guard returns, lugging a briefcase. My eyes widen despite myself. Do they just carry that much cash around? I’d expected my demand to be a problem. Apparently, I was wrong.
“Two hundred thousand,” the guard announces, dropping the briefcase on the floor with a heavy thud. He flips it open, revealing neat stacks of bills. “You can count it if you like.”
I don’t look at the blue-eyed man as I go down to my hunches and run my fingers over the crispy notes. Plucking up a bundle, I make a deliberate show of counting it, the rough texture of the notes oddly grounding.
“That was quick,” I remark, tilting my head slightly. “You must be used to this—paying people off at the drop of a hat.”
“Now that that’s concluded,” he says, his hands sliding casually into his pockets, “I think it’s time we say our goodbyes.”
I raise my head, locking eyes with him. “Concluded? Far from it, mister. Unfortunately for you, I’m not someone you can buy.” I open my palm, letting the bundle slip through my fingers. The cash flutters to the tarmac in a scattered mess, carried by the wind.
“Everyone has a price.” The man’s voice is as cold as ice.
“I don’t,” I snap. “All the money in the world couldn’t buy me. So take your cash, shove it where the sun doesn’t shine, and get the hell off my plane,asshole.”
Who the hell does he think he is? Stealing my plane, acting cocky about it like I should be grateful he deigned to use it, and then adding salt to injury by throwing money at me like I’m grinding on a pole. No way in hell! Not now, not ever.
I hate men like him, and unfortunately the mafia is teaming with them, or maybe I hate such assholes because my life is surrounded with varies of their cliches. Arrogant, entitled, and utterly convinced the world bows at their feet. Maybe I hate because I’ve spent my entire life hating on them and because of what they’ve taken from me.
Over the years, I’ve learned how to deal with their intrusion, and I enjoy nothing more than taking them down a peg or two.
Around us, the air seems to drop down to a freezing level, and I can see that the man has gone still, his blue eyes darkening. The boy from years ago was surly, but there had still been some vulnerability to him that made him feel human. The man before me wears an older, unscarred version of that boy’s face, but nothing else is the same.
The silence stretches between us, taut as a bowstring, until finally, he speaks. “So you would never have a change of heart, then?”
“I guess you’ll never know.”
Satisfaction blooms in my chest as I spin on my heels, prepared to leave him and his money behind.
“And here I thought you wouldn’t mind lending your plane to me for old time’s sake. Or are we no longer friends, Giulia Montanari?”
I come to a screeching halt at the sound of my name, heart thudding so fast that I’m afraid it’s going to burst right out of my chest and splatter onto the hard tarmac. I squeeze my eyes shutfor a moment, trying to combat the effect that my name rolling off his tongue has on me.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to steady myself, trying to ignore the way hearing my name on his lips sends shivers down my spine. Slowly, I turn to face him, my mouth parting in disbelief.
“You remember?”
