Page 4 of Tall, Dark, and Grumpy

One month earlier

I really should have just killed everyone to take over this London mafia. Sitting at the head of the long boardroom table and as the head of finance drones on over surprisingly good presentation slides, I consider rewinding the clock. This mafia territory and all the businesses I’ve acquired are a mess, and I think at least some of the staff are still loyal to either the Geracis or the Newhavens before them. I should just dispose of them all, and be done.

But it’s impossible to tell who is lying, because after two take-overs of Esher in two years, everyone in the meeting is visibly nervous, or sweating, or both.

“And you see the projections…” Mr Hathaway mutters some numbers. “So the need for investment is critical.”

Just like that, I’m engaged with this again, because there’s a discrepancy, and that’s why I called this meeting. To give Hathaway enough rope to hang himself with.

“You said there has been stagnation in the last two years,” I snap. “Those slides show an increase. Which is true?”

“Mr Blackwood, I?—”

“Which is correct?” Fury solidifies in my chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “there must be some mistake in the numbers.”

“You’re giving me wrong numbers,” I state, my voice lowering to the calm soft pitch that everyone in Milan knew to fear. But these men don’t know me well yet.

“Not me, I apologise.” He swallows, but there’s something underhand about him. I don’t trust it.

“Who made the mistake?” I lounge back in my chair. I’m interested to see how this will play out.

“My Junior Assistant Accounting Clerk produced these slides.” His gaze is too steady, and his forehead is beaded with sweat. Something is being hidden from me.

“Bring in whoever made them.”

“But—”

“Now.” I’m not sure if he knows how close to death he is. But perhaps he does, because after only a second’s hesitation he scurries out of the room.

We all wait.

I drum my fingers on the table, irritation spiking through me. Of all the fucking stupidity, I had to give myself this problem. I wasfinein Milan. Absolutelyfine. I should never have returned to London, because it hasn’t sealed the gaping hole in my chest. It hasn’t made me less lonely.

The worst part is that the eldest of my two identical brothers, Rafe, has a new wife he’s sickeningly in love with. Sev transparently has a crush on a woman, but becomes tight-lipped when asked who. I’m the third kingpin in London with the same face, but a stranger. I have no one.

This whole bloody enterprise—and it has been bloody in parts, despite my having gone about the take-over legitimately—was a mistake.

The glass door swooshes open, and the curvy shape of a young woman draws my eye.

“Good morning!”

The air is sucked from my lungs.

I stare.

The girl—and she is no more than a girl compared to me—Hathaway has brought to take the blame, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Renaissance paintings? Rubbish. Roman architecture? Dull. The Italian sunshine? Paltry.

This girl’s soft, closed-mouth smile as she flits her gaze around the room is stunning. Her pale blue eyes are gentle like a cloud coyly drifting over the summer sky. Her brunette hair—was ever there a word so inadequate?—shines, a tendril falling over her cheek and the rest in a loose knot at the back of her head. My god, I want to take down her hair and see it spread across my pillow as I thrust into her and make her mine more than I want my next breath.

Dressed in a neat pair of loose trousers and a scoop-necked top in a navy that contrasts with her eyes, making them seem even paler blue, she’s professional yet elegant. As she shifts from foot to foot, I notice her practical but worn flat shoes. But even her carefully chosen appropriate office wear doesn’t disguise that she’s got a body made for sin.

She must be more than a head shorter than me, but she’s all curves. Her breasts would be the perfect handful, her hips were made to be held as I take her from behind.

There aren’t words for how lovely she is, or not in English there aren’t. A stream of sensual Italian phrases run through my mind, accompanying imaginings of her naked body. Beneath me, on top of me, her face creased with ecstasy.