Page 3 of His To Erase
Hell heactslike the kind of man who always gets what he wants. There’s nothing casual about the way he looks tonight.
He’s wearing another dark, expensive suit—the kind you only wear if you’ve got the money to make dry cleaning someone else’s problem. The fabric clings in all the right places, accentuating the kind of body that’s used to being looked at. Not overly muscled but not lean—just powerful. Controlled. Just like everything else about him.
His hair’s a little too long, slicked back in a way that should read sleazy—as inmobster with a God complex—but on Frank, it doesn’t. Not quite. No, on him it looks... deliberate. Calculated. Not a single strand out of place. Just like the rest of him.
He’s already smiling when I look up. Enough to suggest that he knows I’m watching. Or worse, that he planned for me to be.
It’s the kind of smile that makes people trust him too quickly.
And sure—he’s attractive. I’m not blind. He’s tall, well-dressed, and objectively handsome in that magazine-spread, secret-sociopath kind of way. He’s the kind of man women rewrite their morals for, and are willing to ruin their lives for.
Not me.
I’ve seen what that smile does to people.
He smiles like a gentleman, but there’s something behind it—something slick, dark and dangerous.
I know I’m supposed to be flattered by his attention, but when his eyes rake over me—slow and greedy, like he’s trying to memorize me by inch. All it does is make my stomach twist andmy skin crawl. It makes me want to bolt for the door and not look back.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“You’ve been quiet tonight, doll,” his voice is smooth like aged whiskey and just as dangerous. There’s a weight beneath it—something coiled and unreadable. “That pretty little head of yours thinking too much again?”
I smile and set my glass down with all the elegance of someone who’s pretending they haven’t already fantasized about stabbing him with a stir stick.
“Just counting all the red flags I’ve been ignoring,” I say sweetly, like we’re flirting and not circling a battlefield.
His grin spreads, like he knows exactly how much damage he can do with it.
That’s the problem with men like Frank. They don’t just walk into rooms—they own them. Or at least, they like to pretend they do. Maybe he thinks he owns me too.
The thought sours fast, but I don’t let it show. I’ve spent years surviving men who thought their power made them invincible. Who saw girls like me as soft things to mold.
I’ve been here before. Standing too close to the fire, letting my guard slip one calculated inch at a time. Pretending I’m not already cataloguing the exits, every time he leans just a little too far into my space.
I know what happens when men like him think you’re theirs, and I’m not naïve enough to think I’m still untouchable.
Not anymore.
And if I’m not careful, Frank DeLuca might just be the mistake that finally gets me killed.
He taps his fingers against the bar, slow and rhythmic, like a man who’s entirely too pleased with himself. "You know, Ani, it’s been months since I got out of the hospital."
I arch a brow, unimpressed. "And you’re just now realizing that? Must’ve been a rough recovery."
He chuckles, shaking his head. "Nah. Just figured now’s a good time to finally thank you properly."
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the bar, pretending to be interested. "Most people just say thank you and move on, maybe send a fruit basket if they’re feelin’ a little spicy."
"Right, but I’m not most people."
Unfortunately.
He smirks. "So, how about dinner?"
I huff a laugh, wiping down the counter between us, the same one I’ve scrubbed three times already tonight. Mostly out of spite.
“That’s the third time you’ve asked me out this week, Frank. You must be a masochist… or desperate. Neither are a good look.”
