Page 4 of Scarlet Vows

He laughs and squeezes my thigh so hard I whimper.

It seems to please him, and he stops.

“You might not want to do that. See, Alina, I know who you are.”

“I don’t know you.”

His gaze hits mine. Hard. Flinty, even as he continues to smile. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize me. After all, I went to school with your brother.”

I frown at him. “We’re a number of years apart. And I don’t know you.”

But he isn’t listening.

“By the way, is Demyan still an A-grade asshole?”

I narrow my eyes.

Any friend of Demyan’s wouldn’t be like this. And even someone who knew him at school would have to have a death wish to harass his sister.

Who the hell is this douche?

“If anyone’s an asshole, it’s you,” I say.

He laughs. “Oh, you’re feisty. I love that. I’m shocked Demyan ever let you develop anything approaching a personality beyond a doormat.”

“I’m shocked you’re too stupid to get the message that I don’t want to talk to you.”

“You say that now,” he murmurs, “but the thing is I love a chase, and you’re just making yourself more and more irresistible the harder you play.”

“Disinterested.Notplaying.”

He chuckles. “See? You might be perfect.” Then he holds out a hand. “I’m Santo Barone.”

For a moment, I don’t move.

Santo Barone.

I know the name, who he is.

Santo’s the don of the Barone mafia, one of the most ruthless crime families in the city. But more than that, I remember Demyan and his friends laughing about him as teens.

A sickening realization hits.

Demyan used to fight with him, put him in his place. Some factions called it bullying; Demyan called it justified.

From the stories I remember, Santo was a bully himself, a big kid on campus who liked to treat the girls like his own personal playthings, and he cheated on all his girlfriends.

Even at college, Demyan said Santo was a womanizing asshole, a piece of shit who’d sell his own mother on the streets if he could make a dime off of her.

Santo’s smile turns real. It’s still nasty, still sleazy, but now there’s actual delight.

“Now you recognize me. That’s good because I like my dates to be prepared. In every way.”

He deliberately licks his lips, and my stomach turns.

“I’m not dating you,” I say.

“Friday night. I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear something pretty, nice, and short. Accessible. Heels.”