Page 15 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“I’m not.”
“You called me expensive ten seconds ago.”
“That was not about dogs.”
“No, that was about property.”
His expression doesn’t change, his eyes still holding that edge of amusement. “You were sold to me.”
The simplicity of it scrapes against my nerves.
“Do you even hear yourself when you talk?”
“Constantly.”
“Then how do you manage to act so obnoxiously flippant and unashamed?”
This time, he laughs. I hate how it makes his already handsome face even more attractive.
“Because shame is a waste,” he says.
“You should try it anyway. Personal growth, and all that.”
“I’ll add it to the list.”
“There’s a list?”
“Several.”
I stare at him, and he looks back, almost smiling, and for one dangerous second the room tilts away from hostage negotiation and toward something sharper, stranger. He is enjoying me. Not my fear. Not even my anger. Me. The pushback. The refusal. The fact that I keep stepping closer to the line because he keeps drawing one.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“With you?”
“No. With Leon.”
The humor leaves his face. Enough that I see the man beneath the charm. Colder. Older. The Don, who is feared by anyone with common sense or a desire to live.
“Leon O’Reilly has been sloppy,” he says with obvious ire.
“He runs auctions. Traffics women. Abuses children. Launders money. And your complaint is that he’s sloppy?”
“My complaint,” Stefano says, standing, “is that he brought all of that into my city and thought I would tolerate it.”
The room changes when he rises to his feet. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t threaten, he doesn’t even move toward me, but his height and the power that surrounds him dominate the space.
“The Irish are getting bold,” he continues. “Leon has been moving money through Miami shell companies for months. Using pieces of infrastructure he does not own, taking cuts he didn't earn, and sending men into rooms where they should have asked permission before breathing.”
“Permission from you.”
“Yes.”
“Well, at least you’re modest.”
Sarcasm again, anything to hide the way my pulse is racing, the way my breath has quickened. He walks toward the desk. I don’t step back. I do, however, move sideways to place the desk between us. Self-preservation is not the enemy of pride after all, it’s the savior of it. His mouth curves in response.
“I was already moving against Leon before the auction,” he says. “The raid changed my timing. You changed my options.”
