Page 41 of Runaway in the Mafia
“Yeah?”
I nodded. “The moment I get home.” My relief was short-lived.
“There’s no need.” He pulled his drawer open and took out an envelope. “I have the copy, right here.”
Goddammit.
One brow hiked up. “Unless, of course, you don’t want to sign it.”
Fuck this man. I hated my family. I wanted all the idiots to find their fucking way out except for that lone speck of brown. Fuck, he was right. I was into this girl. Even when she disobeyed me. Especially then. This. Could. Not. Happen.
Before I knew it, I’d taken a gulp straight off the decanter and crossed over to his desk. “Give me the damn pen.”
He held it away from me. “What’s her name again?”
“Ahana.”
His grin blew up on his face and I realised he meant my future wife.Fuck.I didn’t know.Carla? Bianca?
Ahana. Ahana. Ahana.
“No,” I growled and lurched for the pen. My signature was so hard it almost scratched through the paper. I stared at it like it was a death sentence. I should have been relieved. No more sleepless nights. No more heady scents that followed me everywhere. No more jerking off to the memory of a stolen kiss. Nothing. I was back in control.Right?Something cracked inside me.
“Make sure Andrea gets this,pronto,” My tone was all gravel.
“If you’re sure about it.”
“Sì, no more discussions about this.” I should be relieved. I stepped back and rubbed my forehead.
His sympathetic gaze met mine. “Need a Tachipirina?”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
“Divya’s in the kitchen. She’ll have something.”
I dropped the decanter on the way out. “Oh,” Antonio threw behind my back. “She’s having an Indian themed day today.”
I frowned.And that’s my problem, how?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
VITALE
Icrossed the hall from the office to the kitchen to the faint smell of spices. Indian music seeped underneath the closed oak door and crawled across the textured walls of Antonio’s long hall.
But it took me opening the door and standing in the middle of their open kitchen to find the scenery had changed. Realisation sank in. This was what he had meant by an Indian themed day. Specifically,whowould be present at said day.
The sight smashed into me and shot right into my chest.
Divya and Ahana were dancing to some Indian song dressed in sarees.Fuck me.Desire made my cock thicken. My breath hitched, and for a few seconds, I forgot to breathe.
Fucking nine yards of fabric, Antonio had once told me. I’d seen Divya countless times in one of them and had thought it was pretty.Pretty!What Ahana wore wasn’t pretty. She shimmered like a goddess. All sultry and sexy. It was a fucking wet dream. Sex served on a plate. It might have been coloured in a saffron yellow and draped like silk. ButJesus,not a single manwould think with the head north of his neck. My hands plunged into my pockets and they clenched the inner silk tight, when they itched to wrap around her bare, naked waist and graze my tongue along the silk coating her skin.
“Oh, oh, this part,” Divya squealed, and they both started to whirl.
My feet moved without my permission. I came to a stop a breath away from her. She must have poured a gallon of that fucking frangipani scent on her, because that was all I could inhale. My vision edged with lust. Red. Hot. Fire.
Her eyes were closed, and a silly grin was plastered on her face. In that moment, she looked innocent, like she’d shed the sadness she carried on her. It only took her a few twirls before she sensed my presence. A frown crossed her forehead. A second later, her eyes popped open, and she jerked to a stop. Her brain hadn’t caught up. She stumbled and crashed into me. Silk. Sex. Andfrangipani.
