Page 72 of Shadows of Steel
“I’m home.” He announces, smirking like the cocky bastard he is.
I take in his appearance, the tailored shirt, the effortless arrogance in the way he lounges. The same sharp Salvatore features, the same fucking attitude.
I lean back, arms resting on the chair’s armrests. “So I see. You didn’t pick up the phone when I called last week.”
“Ah, zio, I was busy. Isola Nascosta has… its distractions.” His grin is nothing short of wicked.
I arch a brow. “Keep your dick out of trouble.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he retorts. “Besides, I hear you’re the one who’s been distracted lately.”
I tilt my head, eyes narrowing.
I don’t humour him with a response. Instead, I say, “Good to have you home. But if I ever catch you looking at my wife the wrong way—” I let my words trail off letting the threat settle in the air.
Leonardo just laughs, shaking his head. “You’ve got it bad, zio.”
A faint commotion outside catches my attention. I push up from my chair, already moving toward the door.
“I believe my wife has just arrived home,” I murmur, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I should go welcome her.”
Leonardo smirks, standing as well. “Then by all means, let me witness the chaos firsthand.”
Together, we make our way through the house and toward the front entrance.The moment I step outside, I come to an abrupt halt.
A convoy of workers is unloading crates of designer goods into my driveway, the sheer excess of it almost laughable. I glance at Leonardo, who bites back a laugh.
“Is that a truckload of fucking Prada in my driveway?” I ask, my voice flat as I take in the sight.
Piero, nods. “Yes, sir.”
I exhale slowly. “It appears my wife is single-handedly keeping the luxury market alive.”
As I look around the commotion, my gaze settles on her, hat perched atop her head, stunning as always, like she just stepped out of a goddamn fashion editorial. She stands amidst the chaos she created, entirely unbothered, the very picture of confidence.
She’s becoming my fucking obsession.
And I don’t know if I hate it.
Or if I love it.
Or if I love to fucking hate it.
I approach, my gaze locked on her as she finally looks up at me.
“So you spent a few million today,” I remark. “Care to share what exactly you bought?”
Harlow grins. “Oh, just the essentials.”
I narrow my eyes. “The essentials, you say?”
“Well,” she tilts her head, a glint of mischief in her eyes, “first, I acquired a company. They had the most exquisite shoes, and securing the business outright was far more practical than purchasing the entire collection piece by piece. Consider it a strategic investment.”
I arch a brow. “You bought a company for their shoes?”
She shrugs. “I’m particular like that.”
I smirk, but inwardly, I already know the truth. My wife thinks she can play games with me, but I see through her. I was informed of the acquisition long before she decided to make a spectacle of it, how the previous owners were desperate for a swift sale, how she not only seized the opportunity but overpaid to ensure they walked away with more than they asked for. Not just that, she secured the jobs of every employee, ensuring the company remained intact. She’d never admit it, but beneath all that sharp wit and ruthless charm, there’s a part of her that refuses to be as merciless as she pretends to be.
