Page 61 of Saxon

"Luka, what did you do?" Saxon jerks his gun out and presses it to Luka’s forehead.

"Hello, Saxon." The voice is raspy, sexy, cultured, alluring.

"Camilla," Saxon whispers, sounding shocked.

Fuck.

Camilla Marccione

Saxon

Camilla Marccione looks better than ever. A hair under six feet, svelte, curvy. Long, glossy black hair cascading in waves down past her breasts, which are high and proud and prominent in the red bandage dress she's wearing. In four-inch black stilettos, she'd be taller than me if I was standing up. Her eyes are so brown they appear black. She's in partial profile, her right side to me, lit by the pool of light from above. Her left side, I can't see. On purpose, I imagine. Her hair is draped over her left shoulder, curtained in front of the left side of her face.

Beside me, Terra is tense, vibrating—terrified? Angry? Jealous? Insecure? No fuckin' clue.

I only see Camilla and Luka, but I know better. I'd bet my last dollar that there's a bunch of dudes out of sight with night vision and high-powered rifles.

I lower the gun. "Can't hold that against you," I say to Luka. "When a Marccione makes you an offer, you accept or you die."

Camilla smiles—it's a cold thing that doesn't reach her eyes. "We aren't going to have trouble, are we, Saxon?"

"Depends on what you actually want," I say. “Kill me, torture me, all that fun stuff? Sure. I'll go along with it. If you plan on harming on hair on her head?" I jerk my head at Terra. "Then yeah, we'll have a major fuckin' problem."

"Didn't you hear Luka?" Camilla rests a hand on his shoulder—her nails are an inch long and as bloodred as her dress. "I just want to talk."

"Coulda just called. Didn't have to involve Luka."

"Perhaps," she says. "But this way, he gets a lot of money, the car you gave him, freedom from the Cabal, a job with me, and all the pussy he could ever want, while I get his invaluable services, and the look of shock on your face, which, I must say, is very nearly priceless, to me."

"I already get all the pussy I want," Luka says.

"All the free pussy, I should have said." She traces a long fingernail along his jaw. "And let me tell you, Luka, I run prime pussy."

"I hear you also run the best blow," Luka says, hope in his voice.

At Camilla's snapped fingers, a man materializes out of the shadows, a locking silver suitcase in each hand. he tosses both on the hood of the Range Rover, inputs a code into one, pops the locks, and opens it. Does the same to the other. Luka wanders over, reaches into one, and pulls out a stack of cash, tosses it back in with a nod. The other contains cocaine—he flips a knife out, stabs a brick, and snorts right off the blade, tossing his head back.

He shakes his head. "Whooo! This shit is pure, baby. I am your man, Camilla. Whatever you need. Just keep me knee-deep in pussy and blow." Luka clicks both cases closed and vanishes.

Leaving us alone with Camilla, who taps her fingernails on the hood of the car—ticktickticktick…ticktickticktick.

The man who brought the cases remains behind Camilla, hands clasped behind his back, a handgun in a shoulder holster visible beneath his open blazer.

Camilla regards me—her gaze is like a lizard's, cold, alien, and unreadable. "I do not trust you, Saxon Cabot. This is an issue."

"I don't trust you either, but here we are. You came to me. Say what you want to say and let’s go back to our separate lives. I have no quarrel with you or the Marccione family, and I want none."