Page 51 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“What the hell was that?”
I settle back against the seat. “Be more specific. What was what?”
“You pulled a gun on that man in the middle of a private club.”
“Yes.”
“With Leon twenty feet away.”
“Leon was farther than that.”
“That is not the point.”
“It is one point.”
Her eyes flash. Beautiful. Murderous. Mine to irritate for at least the next five days. “Are you insane?”
“No,” I say. “I am exact — efficient if you will.”
“Exact?” She laughs once, sharp and furious. “That was your exact choice? Put a gun under your jacket because some drunk asshole touched my wrist?”
“Alistair Voss was not drunk, not tonight, at least. Though he is an asshole.”
“That’s what you’re focusing on?”
“He is cruel when sober. Careless when offended. And utterly cowardly when afraid.”
“Oh, good. I’m so glad we preserved the intelligence value of your public felony,” She quips irritably.
My mouth twitches toward a smile. She notices and looks like she wants to slap me.
“You’re angry,” I say.
“You think?” she says with exasperation.
“At me?”
“No, Stefano, I’m furious at the valet.” Her voice drips with sarcasm.
“Ah, well that’s good at least.”
That stops her for half a second. “Good?”
“Better anger than fear.”
“I wasn’t afraid of him.”
“I know.”
“Then why interfere?”
“Because he touched you.”
Her face contorts into an inquisitive grimace. One I’ve never seen on her before.
“That makes you sound unhinged.”
I look at her wrist. The anger in me sharpens again, quiet and vicious. The mark is small. A temporary pressure line, already fading under the dim light.
