Page 47 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
He told me to stay close. He made a point of it. Stay close. Do not improvise. Lean in. Listen. Watch. Now he is leaving me here. The bastard.
His hand leaves my neck and comes to my chin, two fingers beneath it, lifting my face toward his. To the men around us, the touch is intimate enough to make looking away polite. To me, it serves as a reminder that he can turn my attention wherever he wants.
“Stay here,” he murmurs.
“That sounds like an order.”
“It is.”
“You said stay close.”
“I did.”
“And now?”
His eyes hold mine. “Now I need to see what you do when you’re not.”
I go cold. Not as a result of fear. But understanding. This is a test, perhaps a trap. Most likely both.
“You are enjoying this too much,” I say softly.
“Yes.”
He lowers his mouth near my ear, his voice meant only for me. “Do not improvise.”
“You brought the wrong woman.”
“I know.”
Then he straightens, gives Leon a pleasant look that contains nothing pleasant at all, and follows him toward the smoked-glass partition at the back of the VIP area.
I remain seated. Not alone. Not truly. Stefano’s men are somewhere. Omar is somewhere. Stefano can probably still see me from wherever he goes because men like him do not leave valuables unattended unless the trap around them has teeth.
But socially, publicly, deliberately, I have been left exposed at a table with men who watched me be sold two nights ago. The performance is no longer theoretical.
The man to my left shifts closer almost immediately, and I recognize him from the auction, too. Older. Silver at the temples. Wedding ring. Soft hands. The kind of man who probably calls himself civilized because he pays other people to do the hurting.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, lingering with the same oily interest I remember from the stage.
“So,” he says, smiling as he reaches for my wrist. “Does Savarese let his new toy speak when he’s not in the room?”
His fingers close around my skin. I look down at his hand. Then back at his face.
Chapter Eight
Stefano
Leon O’Reilly is not as calm as he wants me to believe. That is the first useful thing I learn when he follows me behind the smoked-glass partition and pours two drinks neither of us needs. His hand is steady, but his mouth is not. Every smile arrives a fraction too late, every laugh disappears too quickly, and when he says the raid was an inconvenience, his left eye tightens at the corner.
An inconvenience doesn’t put tension like that on a man’s face. But a problem does.
I take the glass he offers, but don’t drink from it. “You’ve had a difficult week.”
Leon smiles. “Difficult? No. Expensive, maybe.”
“Money returns.”
“Usually.”
