Page 43 of The Bonventi War
"Gio—"
"No," I cut him off. "Listen to me, Ares. You tell those Russian pieces of shit that if any of them so much as look at her wrong, I'll fucking kill them. All of them. You hear me?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line. When Ares speaks again, his voice is low. "I hear you, my friend. But are you sure about this? You're risking a lot for one woman, and the Gio I've known most of my life would never do this."
"She's not just one woman," I growl. The words come out before I can stop them, raw and honest. "She's mine."
Another pause.
"I see," he says finally. "They won't back down easily," Ares warns. "They're saying the debt?—"
"I don't give a fuck what they're saying." I lean forward, my free hand curling into a fist. "That debt died the moment they tried to kill my brother and force her into their sick arrangement. And if they push this, a lot more than just the debt will die."
I hear Ares sigh. "I figured you'd say something like this. Not about the girl, but not wanting to work or negotiate with them because of Marco. You're a crazy motherfucker, Gio, you know that? This girl better be worth it."
"She is."
"Well, consider the message received. I'll pass it along."
"Good," I snap. "And Ares? I owe you one for this."
"I'll add it to your tab, you Italian bastard," he laughs. "Take care, Gio. I'll see you Friday."
I end the call, tossing my phone onto the seat beside me.
The rage is rising in me. Those bastards think they can just demand Raven like she's some piece of property to be traded? Like she belongs to them?
I check the tracking app again. Her dot is at the art store.
Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe.
The possessive thoughts consume me as I direct my driver to head toward the art store. I need to see her. Need to make sure she's alright.
21
RAVEN
Ismooth my hands down the front of this sinfully beautiful dress, admiring how the fabric hugs every curve. I've never worn anything this luxurious before.
The mirror reflects back someone I barely recognize, someone elegant, sophisticated even.
This black Armani dress Gio bought for me fits like it was meant for me, the neckline plunging just enough to make a statement without being vulgar. My breasts look amazing, lifted and shaped perfectly. I turn sideways, and—damn. My ass looks incredible in this.
Gio's going to lose his mind.
And then there are the shoes. This morning, one of Gio's men dropped off a bag containing a pair of red-bottomed Louboutins, complete with a note that simply read: "Wear these tonight." The six-inch heels make my legs look a mile long, and the signature red soles flash with each step.
Ya girl is feeling fancy.
I can't help but giggle as I twirl in front of the mirror. The little girl who used to play dress-up in her mother's closet is screaming with joy inside me. Hell, the adult me is screaming too, just not as loudly.
I pause, catching my reflection again. My dark hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, framing my face. The smoky eye makeup I've applied makes my blue eyes look almost electric.
Finally, for the first time since arriving in Chicago, gone is the stressed-out art restorer, replaced by this goddess.
It's nice to feel sexy.
There's also a small part of me—okay, a big part of me—that is excited to see Gio's reaction. I know he made it clear this wasn't a date, and I don't even know if I'm ready to call it one myself, but I like the way he looks at me, and that's what I'm after.
