Page 5 of The Bonventi War
As I approach, his gaze rakes over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
"Ah, you must be the lovely Ms. Carvello," he says, extending his hand. "I'm Edward Clarence Blackwell. I worked with yourdad before he, uh, left, I guess. Anyhow," he says, looking me up and down for the second time, "he's told me so much about your talents, but he failed to mention how drop dead gorgeous you are."
I shake his hand briefly, forcing a polite smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blackwell. I understand you're interested in discussing an acquisition?" I ask, not even acknowledging his slimy vibe.
He nods, that unsettling smile still in place. "Indeed. I have my eye on a particular piece. Perhaps we could discuss it this evening when you're more available. Perhaps over dinner?"
Is he trying to make me throw up in my mouth?
I feel my smile falter for a moment before I catch myself. "I appreciate the offer, Mr. Blackwell, but I'm afraid I'm quite busy taking over the gallery. I just don't have any free time for the foreseeable future. Plus, it's not smart business to date customers," I say and turn toward the showroom. "Why don't we take a look at the piece you're interested in?"
I start to walk, intending to lead him toward the main gallery space, but I feel his hand on my shoulder, stopping me.
"Come now, Ms. Carvello," he says, his voice lowering. "Surely you can spare an evening for a potential high-value client? I assure you, it would be worth your while," he says and starts rubbing my shoulders. "I know how to treat a woman."
My skin crawls where his hand touches me, and I have to hold back the urge to shrug it off. And just when I think of tell him exactly where he can shove his dinner invitation, a deep voice cuts through the gallery.
"I think the lady isn't interested," someone says behind me.
I turn to see a tall, muscular-built man walking toward us. His dark hair is brushed back perfectly, and his green eyes are fixed on Mr. Blackwell with a look that could freeze hell itself.
"Excuse me?" Mr. Blackwell sputters, his hand still on my shoulder. "This is a private conversation. You have no idea who I am, so mind your own damn business."
The man flashes a dangerous smile. "I don't give a fuck who you are, but this is my business. When I see a lady being harassed, it becomes my business."
I try to speak, but no words come. There's something about this man that both terrifies and fascinates me. As he approaches us, his towering presence is fully felt, and the air around the three of us feels stiff, barely able to contain impending violence.
Mr. Blackwell puffs up his chest, clearly not realizing the danger he's in. "I don't know who you think you are, but?—"
In a blur of motion, the tall, dark-haired man moves. One moment, Mr. Blackwell's hand is on my shoulder; the next, he's being yanked away from me with such force that he stumbles.
"I think it's time for you to leave," the man growls, his voice low and menacing.
Mr. Blackwell stands there for a moment, and the other man feels it's too long.
I watch, wide-eyed, as he grips Mr. Blackwell by the collar and practically drags him toward the gallery entrance. Mr. Blackwell struggles and protests, but he might as well be trying to resist a force of nature.
"Let me go! Get your hands off me!" Mr. Blackwell shouts, his face turning an alarming shade of red.
The man doesn't respond. He reaches the door, yanks it open, and in one swift motion, shoves Mr. Blackwell onto the sidewalk. He tumbles to the ground.
"Don't come back," the tall, dark-haired man says, his voice low but carrying effortlessly. He turns to someone I can't see—probably outside the door—and adds, "Make sure this piece of shit doesn't set foot back in here."
A muffled "Yes, sir" comes from outside before the man closes the door and turns back to face me.
That same intense look is now locked on me, and my heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Shit, he's coming toward me.
4
RAVEN
Iwatch, almost frozen, as the man makes his way back toward me, his powerful frame moving across the gallery floor. I look at him, and something flutters at the back of my mind. I know him from somewhere.
As he comes closer, his tattoos catch my attention—intricate designs covering his hands, disappearing under his sleeves, and reappearing as they crawl up his neck.
Even through the expensive, tailored suit, I can tell he's built like a tank—muscle and grit. The kind of man who could snap someone in half without breaking a sweat.
