Page 70 of Manic

I shrugged and faced forward, pretending not to be bothered. The silence stretched until the last floor lit up the indicator above us. As I went to follow Axell and Vince, my heart began to race.

Once they were out of earshot, I teasingly whispered, “I like when you smile.”

Manic moved so fast, I’d almost forgotten what we were doing. I gasped, now pinned between him and the elevator wall within seconds as his hand curved around my jaw. Our eyes clashed.

We remained hidden from the others, but the doors began to close again. He halted them with a shoe, forcing them open, and tilted his head. Hair fell over his temple, and a low simmer of heat entered my veins. I was beginning to see a pattern with him—one where he’d snap minutes before a meeting with the mafia.

He loathed them. He had to.

“You hate me,” he declared gruffly. “You do not like me. Remember that.”

“I hate you,” I echoed, stifling the smile threatening to rise.

It wasn’t until I’d breathed the words that I realized how much of a liar I was. I didn’t hate him, not really, and I think that shocked me more than him snapping. Manic was complex, but he wasn’t entirely evil. A massive grey area. If anything, his determination to not kill me only made my curiosity climb higher.

The air hung thick with his heady cologne, and I was now fixed on how close he was to my face. His mouth hovered so close to mine, I could practically taste him.

His breathing picked up, but he gritted, “You’re afraid of me.”

I wasn’t, but I echoed the words again anyway. I smiled softly, fighting the urge to close the distance and bite his lip.

Would he like that? Probably.

But I bet he’d like it more if I made him bleed.

“Are we going to the meeting,” I teased, rocking my hips, “or are we going to fuck in the elevator?”

He growled and immediately released me like I’d burned his fingertips. After Manic smoothed his suit jacket, we stepped out of the elevator to find Axell and Vince still waiting for us.

Vince lifted a single eyebrow, but Axell had the smallest of smiles on his face. It vanished as he met Manic’s gaze, then proceeded down the hall like nothing had happened. My anxiety rose as I fell into step beside Manic.

Somewhere, my father stood behind the glass doors of the executive meeting room. I wondered how he’d appear today. Either way, I lifted my chin with all the confidence I could muster and walked toward the meeting room. Axell swung the doors open on our approach.

Ten pairs of eyes swept toward us, the conversation dying, punctuated by the tension in the air. The back wall made of solid glass lit up in different shades of the casino lights below. Though my eyes immediately landed on my father who was sitting at the middle of the long table. His face turned a dark shade of red, eyes blazing.

“What is she doing here?” my father asked tightly.

Ah. So he didn’t know I was coming.

Although his words sent a pang of hurt through me, I kept my face a cool mask. Unfortunately for him, he just gave me more reason to piss him off today. Manic led us toward the end where Ronan sat, and had me sit beside him. He braced an arm along the back of my chair, and I took the time to glance at each attendant.

Grave sat beside Ronan and another Crowe member, and down the table were the Russians. My blood ran cold the moment my eyes clashed with one of them. Dark hair, ears pierced, tattoos up to his jawline. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. One I recognized.

The memory of him at The Riot crashed into me with brutal force. He’d been at the club that night with Amelia and me, and he was the reason those lawyers had lured us down there. Dmitri.

Was he one of the Russians?

That meant we had been seconds away from being kidnapped by them just three years ago, and Manic had been there to prevent it. A cold shudder of unease wracked through me.

As if realizing my nervousness, Manic placed his hand on the back of my neck as the arguments resumed.

“What is the schedule that you want?” Ronan asked, folding his arms over the table.

“Port access at least twice a week,” one of them said, his accent heavy and thick. “We want the casinos to ourselves.”

The man was dark haired like Dmitri, only his English was far better, and he looked as if he were in his late forties. Clearly their leader.

Ronan only chuckled, but my father actually snarled in the man’s direction and slammed his hands onto the table. My brow arched at the outburst. His attitude came like an entitled child, unwilling to share his toys.