Page 17 of The Mafia's Bride
But I’d be an idiot not to admit that I’m drawn to her. She’s aflame and I’m a moth, readying to be devoured whole by her fire. Something about her, in her orbit that brings me closer, willing to risk a burn from her tongue or her temper.
“Oh. It’s you.” She sighs, scanning the office once more. Her eyes linger on the back bar, and I clear my throat, pointedly staring her down.
“Yes.Me.” Walking from the desk, I grab my jacket, dusting the invisible particles from the shoulders. “You’re lucky it was me who found you in the stairwell. Not many people would help a high party girl. They might have other ideas than letting you sleep on their couch.”
Was this normal for her? Finding herself in unsafe situations? Didn’t she know how valuable she was? As the daughter to Ferguson O’Brien, people could hurt her for retaliation. With his death, she can be used against Ace.
She glares, and those emerald eyes turn into twin pools of liquid fire.
Mio Dio, she’s a sight, the red lights highlighting her body, making her eyes darken. She’s a demon come to collect my soul.
Bright red lips twist, but even under that anger I see something else. Not just a temper, or her irritation, it’s the casual dismissal of my words. She doesn’t care what could have happened to her, that’s obvious.But why?
Sighing, she sits back on my couch, tucking her feet under her warm curves. Her skirt rides high, showing expanses of white leg and I have to physically pull my eyes away. “Maybe I didn’t want to be helped. Where’s Danica?”
I snort, quelling the urge to provoke her. Something to take that dullness from her eyes. “Your girlfriend who abandoned you?” I shake my head. “You have the worst taste in partners, by the way. The minute I gave her a little scare, she left you to save her own ass.”
Sloane smiles, but it’s sad. Full of remorse and quiet understanding.
I understand the look, one of someone who has been abandoned.Maybe many times prior to now. It’s the same face that stared at me in the hospital mirror when I was told news of my family.
“Unfortunately, Danica is who she is. She doesn’t worry much about anyone except herself.” Her shoulders lower as if it’s a moot point. “Why did you help me?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” I lay the jacket against my chair, sitting down. At her annoyed glare, I can’t help but grin. “You think because of what I do, I’d let a defenseless woman get hurt in my club? Have some more faith in the male population than that.”
“I have very little faith in the male population,” she drawls, flipping a few strands of red over her shoulder. They move like silk. “Even less in a man who works in the same business as my father.” She glances away, brow furrowed.
I smile, enjoying the wheels turning behind those expressive eyes. She’s sizing up the room, running different scenarios in that mind, deducing things I don’t see. I’m pleasantly surprised by this side of her. “What do you notice?” I prod, reclining as she scans the rooms again.
“Wealth. A lot of it.”
“Really?” I look around, seemingly confused. “Where?”
She sighs, tiredly. Pointing a red painted nail to the bar, she says, “The bottles of liquor you have there? None of it is well. All top shelf. A couple thousand easily.” She looks at my desk, to the signed baseball at the corner. “A signed baseball? Judging by the age and how it sits behind protected glass, I assume it’s someone famous. Probably dead. Mark McGwire?”
My smirk grows into wonder. “You know baseball?”
She cuts me a scathing look. “Obviously. All of that is money. And I’m not even going to mention the priceless Roman antique vase in the far corner.” She jabs a finger to the left, and I chuckle, impressed. “Wealth. Money. Just like my father.”
It’s full of bitterness, not what a mourning daughter should sound like.
“So you think you know me?”
“You, in particular, no. But you’re a man and I know all men,” sherolls her eyes, sinking into the couch, playing with a few loose threads.
Gesturing the space between us, I can’t help but challenge her. I like seeing how her mind works, like seeing how she works through things. “Then, please. Enlighten me.”
She pouts, replying as if to the sofa. “Sure, why not?”
Sitting upright, she adjusts her legs, now sitting on her knees. “First, the most obvious: you’re not part of my father’s clan. You’re too pretty, too clean. The suit is designer, I’m guessing Armani from the cut. At the funeral, it looked like Prada. No one in Pops’ circle cared enough about clothes to shell out that kind of money. So, you’re probably from one of the other rivals. Right?”
I grin, tapping my fingers. “Point for you. No, I’m not with the clan.”
Sloane likes to appear the spoiled, wild child of the O’Brien clan, but she hides a clever mind behind that mask.
She nods, mostly to herself. “Now, which? I don’t know much about either of the families, just one handles imports and the other exports.” At my raised brow, she shrugs. “But I do know Bruno tends to have businesses in the northern part, while De Luca is closer to the harbor. Since we’re on the edge of my father—my sister’sterritory and De Luca, safe to say, you’re part of his crew.”
My body stills though my face doesn’t reveal my unease. For someone so out of touch with this world, she certainly deduced more than anyone else I’ve met. “Anything else to add?”
