Page 5 of Attraction (Mobsters + Billionaires 3)
I open my mouth to correct him, but he holds up a finger. “One second.”
He walks away from me, and I’m more disgruntled than I should be. I was hoping for a longer conversation.
Just as the disappointment starts to settle in, he makes his way back to me, now from behind the bar.
“Mind if I show you what you’re missing?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves, exposing the kind of vasculature that practically begs my tongue to trace it.
Oh.Am I a vein whore?
I might be a vein whore.
“Ford?”
I drag my attention away from Luca’s naked forearms. “Um, what?”
He tilts his head to the side. “Can I show you something better than this sad excuse of an adult beverage?”
“Of course,” I say with a go-ahead gesture.
Luca’s teasing flirty smile matches my whiskey buzz nicely, and I adjust my bow tie.
He turns and unlocks what appears to be a specialized cabinet. When he opens the door, I lose my breath. He probably has fifty thousand dollars’ worth of specialty bourbons and whiskeys in this one cabinet. Looking down the bar, I count three more.
I hiss a curse as he pulls out a twenty-three-year-old Pappy Van Winkle.
“Oh, c’mon. Now you’re just showing off.”
His smile deepens along with…is that a blush on a mobster?
Adorable.
He grabs two tumblers and pours us each a couple of fingers, carefully adding the fancy ice spheres. Some would fall all over themselves to tell him how ice ruins the drink, but he knows I’m no purist.
And that’s a one-thousand-dollar pour of perfectly chilled bourbon.
I mean…it’s not like I can’t afford it. My portfolio dwarfs Mr. Stefano’s by an order of magnitude that should be downright criminal. Despite my reputation as a numbers guy—and my knack for playing the stock market, digital currency, and other alternative funds—my middle-class upbringing reminds me how extravagant all of this is.
More than the alcohol, or maybe because of it, I feel like I’m in a movie scene, like one of those old black-and-white mob dramas, with Luca starring as the charming antihero.
I wait for him to put away the bottle, then hold up my glass. He clinks it ever so delicately, and we sip.
“Holy Mother of God.”
Caramel and oak hit my tongue, followed by leather and a nutty, almost vanilla taste. It’s so good that I admire the glass it comes in.
“Would you like your Jack Daniel’s back?” he asks, smiling around a deliberate swallow.
I cradle the precious liquid. “Not on your life, Mr. Stefano. You have now officially spoiled my taste buds and given me a very expensive habit.”
“Oh no, amillionairehas an expensive habit that may or may not benefit me. Whatever shall I do?”
Cary Grant has nothing on this man’s devilish smile.
“Actually, not to put too fine a point on it,” I say, taking another sip of God’s elixir before leaning across to whisper in his ear, “I’m abillionaire. With aB.”
I pop my brows at him and take another sip, wondering how plowed I must be to flirt with a mobster.
He brings the glass to his lips, smiling before tilting it back. “I know. I just wanted to see how many times I could call you a millionaire before you corrected me.”
