Page 21 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

He looks at me.

"Tell me about the customs liaison," he says. "The one who replaced Murati."

"Ferro," I reply without pause. "You won’t find him in any official listing. He doesn’t take bribes, but his brother runs three warehouses outside Cagliari. We adjusted our shipments accordingly."

"And your cut?"

"Five percent markup. Clean and buried under freight adjustments."

He nods approvingly, before shifting in his chair, and I can feel his gaze drop like a stone.

His eyes trail from my face to my mouth, then down, to the crimson silk that hugs my waist, my thighs, my calves.

He does not apologize, nor look away.

"You wore that for the numbers?"

I don't blink.

"I wore it because I own it."

He hums once, low in his throat, and the silence that follows stretches between us like a thread pulled too tight.

Then, softly, he leans forward, his voice near my ear.

"Let’s hope I own this room by the time we’re done."

My stomach flips.

Not from nerves.

Not from fear.

From fury.

From the thrill of it.

He is playing with matches.

So am I.

I press my palms flat to the table, smile thin and practiced.

"You already do, don’t you? Isn’t that what this is about? Reminding us whose city this is?"

His hand brushes against mine.

Not a grab.

Just a suggestion.

He does not move it further, but he doesn’t move it away either.

I draw back just enough to look him full in the face.

His hand is still there, grazing mine, poised at the edge of something.

His palm is warm against the cool lacquer of the table, his thumb a breath from my skin, and the space between us charges with a friction I refuse to acknowledge.