Page 6 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

DeVille pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Ajello might have been right. I should have brought flowers. But you likely hate flowers, don’t you?”

“Ajello?” I raise an eyebrow. “Why would your boss have any opinion on my preferences? He doesn’t even know me.”

And why wouldn’t I like flowers? I love flowers.

There’s a giant pot of peace lilies next to my bed.

Drago got it for me after one of his tirades about how I don’t take my responsibilities seriously.

That one was when I dropped out of college.

My third college. But the plant is still alive and well!

Okaaaay … the “well” part may be a bit debatable since, the last time I checked, it only had a couple of green leaves among a multitude of dried ones.

“Will you please just sit?”

“Nope. I’m quite fine as I am, thank you.”

“I should have ordered whiskey.” DeVille shakes his head as he reaches for the champagne bottle.

“Fine. This is how things stand. The Cosa Nostra don has expressed his wishes to have the two of us join in holy matrimony. I came here tonight so we could agree on terms and move forward with finalizing the finer details. Your preferences , for example.”

I gape at him, processing the nonsense that just left his mouth. A marriage. To him? An uncontrollable giggle explodes from my chest. I try to wrangle it in so as not to draw too much attention to us, but it’s just so damn hilarious.

“You really had me there for a moment,” I snort. “Did Sienna put you up to this? Is this her way of getting back at me because I pranked her with that story about her favorite shoe boutique shutting down? You can tell her we’re even. Bye!”

Still laughing my ass off, I turn around to get back to work but DeVille’s annoyingly sexy voice washes over me again.

“Tara.” That throaty timbre should be illegal, or at least come with a warning label. It’s dangerous to the unprepared.

I throw a glance over my shoulder. By all outward appearances, Sienna’s brother is still lounging comfortably against the back of the sofa as he sips champagne from his flute.

However, there isn’t a trace of ease or softness in his features.

His jaw is set in a hard line, and his forehead is furrowed as he watches me over the rim of his glass.

I’m not sure how I know this, but I’m convinced that the man is a primed powder keg.

A clogged magma chamber that’s ready to erupt.

That look in his eyes? That’s the look of tightly contained rage.

It could incinerate me right where I stand.

“I’m dead serious. Ajello even booked the venue.”

What?

Grabbing the edge of a nearby armchair, I drop onto the leather seat.

Salvatore Ajello is the most feared man on the Eastern Seaboard. I’ve seen grown men—gangsters and thugs—nearly shit their pants when Ajello’s name is brought up. How the hell did I end up in his crosshairs?

“Excuse me?” I choke out.

“It’s a done deal. The don wants to strengthen the ties between our organizations, so it’s not up for debate. Our job is to settle on how we’re going to handle this situation.”

“Oh? It’s a done deal, is it?” My voice is steady, and I manage to keep my tone calm. But as I lean over the table to bring my face right up to DeVille’s, I’m brimming with anger. The pressure spiking my blood might just rival that of the man proclaiming himself my intended husband.

Holy shit, this can’t be happening.

“Well, let me tell you how we’re going to handle this situation, DeVille,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I’m gonna go get myself a double shot of tequila, and then I’ll carry on with my shitty night.

And you…” I point my finger at his chest. “You’re going to return to your deranged boss and tell him that he’s welcome to order his little minions, like yourself, around.

Arranging marriages and other nonsense to his heart’s content.

But I’m not one of them. So, I would like both of you to kindly fuck off. ”

I keep my eyes locked on DeVille’s and get up from the armchair with as much grace as I can muster, straightening out my apron as I rise.

A smart person would do anything to stay off Ajello’s radar, fearful of ending up in a body bag for pissing off the don.

Too fucking bad I’ve never been accused of being wise.

“Tara…” DeVille’s voice seems to have morphed. It has dropped several decibels and gotten somehow deeper, gaining an almost purr-like quality. The gravelly undertone gives an impression that he’s a hair’s breadth from losing his shit. It’s not so much a warning as a promise of my demise.

“Your drink is on me, DeVille.” I nod toward the bottle on the table, then turn on my heel and walk away.

I feel the weight of his stare as I traverse the full length of the crowded dance floor.

It can’t possibly be real because there are so many people between us, but as I reach the bar and slip under the counter flap to get to the back, the feeling of being watched, watched by him, stays with me.

It’s like his glare is burning a hole through me while I reach for a bottle of tequila and pour myself a double shot.

That scorching sensation persists as I down my drink in one go.

I shift, trying to catch sight of him. There are glimpses as the mob of happy and drunk bikers moves.

He’s still in the booth. Still reclining on the sofa as if he owns the place and everyone in it.

Why isn’t he leaving, damn it? Goose bumps race across my exposed skin as if chasing the path of his heated gaze.

I’m imagining things, I know it, but I swear his gaze sizzles over my flesh like a physical caress.

It leaves me rattled.

Holy fuck, I have never met a more infuriating man in my life.

He carries himself as if he’s the most important person in the room.

His tone is always authoritative, like every sentence he speaks is an order he expects to be obeyed.

And unless you’re a part of his beloved Cosa Nostra, he seems to view you as if you’re somehow beneath him.

Everything, every fucking thing that man does irritates me to no end.

Whatever possessed his boss to think of me for this harebrained marriage idea, expecting me to even consider spending more than a minute in DeVille’s company, is not my problem.

It’s Drago’s. He got himself into the scheme with the Italians, so he should be the one to handle this mess.

I wish I could call Drago right now to speak with him about it, but my brother doesn’t do phone calls.

This, too, will have to wait until he gets back from Chicago.

But I have no doubts. Drago will fix this. He always does.

I almost lost him when the Romanians attacked our home, and Drago got shot…

My heart nearly stopped beating. My big brother, well, he’s my rock, the glue that holds me together, the most important person in this world to me.

He’s taken care of me almost my entire life.

No matter how many times I’ve screwed up, he’s been there.

But this… Fuck. This isn’t on me. So I know he’ll make it right. And I just want to go home and put it all behind me. Too bad this night is far from over, though. I need to get back to work, but I’m cemented in place, weighed down by Arturo DeVille’s scalding stare.

It’s a real physical effort on my part to get moving, to make myself focus for the rest of my shift.

For the next three and a half hours, I rush around the club.

I double down on getting everyone their orders, keeping busy as I try everything in my power to avoid glancing in the direction of the VIP booth.

There’s no actual need for me to look over there to see if Sienna’s brother has left.

That searing sensation that dogs my every step is proof enough that he hasn’t.

“Tara!” Jelena howls across a table crammed with four bikers chugging beer as part of some immature game. “Stavros is in the back, asking for you.”

Bloody perfect. Hopefully, no one will mention it to Drago. The last thing I need is for him to find out my ex showed up here tonight.

“Tell the bouncers to throw the jackass out and not let him in again,” I grumble while trying to fit another empty glass on my tray.

“Ah, okay. I was afraid you two were back together.”

“Nope. I don’t make the same mistake twice.” A tiny lie. It usually takes three fuckups before I learn my lesson. But it sounded cool.

She laughs. “Yeah, alright. Hate to say I told you so , but I knew nothing good would come out of that relationship. You’ve got dreadful taste in men.”

Like I don’t know.

Yet, I still try to underscore that fact with every guy I date.

I knew Stavros was a tool from the moment I met him, but I still agreed to go out with him.

The expensive sports car and fancy suits couldn’t hide the truth.

The guy is a moron. I’m not sure he has two functioning cells in that brain of his.

He constantly flashes the ugly-ass seal ring on his pointer finger and brags about the pricey trinkets he buys with his money.

The money he earns by working for his dad.

Stavros’s main interest, though, is his workout regimen, which he insists on telling me the details of.

Every. Single. Time. So, money and gym, that’s all he ever talks about.

He’s the only man I know who’s that full of himself without having an actual reason to be.

We dated for the last two months, and I wanted to break up for at least the last month and a half of that.

But I didn’t. Maybe I’m a masochist. Or just plain stupid.