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“I’m not your fucking son. You made that perfectly clear when Greg Rosten sued my ass, and you slammed the door in my face.”
“I told you not to write the damn expose. You didn’t listen.”
“And you didn’t give me a good enough reason not to.”
“Because—”
“Because ‘he owns Hollywood’ doesn’t cut it, Luciano,” I say, cutting him off. Grabbing the edge of his desk, I jab my finger onto the sleek wood. “That man is the reason my mother doesn’t know who the hell she is half the time. Because of him, I spent my childhood begging strangers for change. And thanks to him half of Hollywood thinks auditions should come with a complimentary blowjob.” I fling myself back into the chair. “He’s an overrated producer, not God.”
“You want to talk about God, boy?” he snaps, spitting the words at me. “What about you playing God with your mother’s life?”
Bastard. She’s exactly the reason I came crawling to him in the first place. The fact he dares to use her as a pawn makes me twist my fingers around the arms of the chair just to keep from reaching across the desk and strangling him with his own tie.
“Say what you have to say, Luciano. I have a busy day ahead of me.”
He narrows his gaze. “And what is it you think I have to say?”
“That you want a piece of the action. But no risk means no reward. Which also means if you think you’re getting a dime of that money, you can suck my dick.”
He slams the lit end of the cigar into his ashtray, pulverizing it until it’s nothing but a bent mass. Eyes as cold as steel gaze up at me from under his gray eyebrows. “I don’t want your goddamn money. Call this off, Dominic. We both know that girl is no more Alexandra Romanov than I am. Send the bitch back to Chula Vista and issue a retraction. I won’t tell you again.”
I leap to my feet. “Is that a threat?”
Not to be outdone, the devil rises from his chair and places both palms flat on the desk. “That’s a promise. Continue with this charade, and you’ll wish you’d listened.”
It’s only then I realize how ironic life can be. I begged this man to put a bullet in my head seventeen years ago. He refused, taking me under his wing and forcing a life on me I never wanted.
Because of it, what I’m about to do will send us both straight to hell.
Mimicking his stance, I lean forward with my palms against the wood, our faces inches apart. “Someone once told me wishes and hopes are useless weapons, and the fool who stands with his hand out waiting for life to step up to the plate only ends up with two things.”
His eyes flash. “Empty hands and an empty wallet.”
“I’m no fool, and my hand’s no longer out, Luciano. You do what you have to do because I’m damn sure going to do what I have to.” Pushing off the desk, I do something few men have ever done and lived to talk about. I turn my back on Luciano Ricci and walk away.
“Dominic.” I’m halfway out the door when his booming voice stops me. I slowly turn my chin over my shoulder and meet his emotionless stare. “That was the third time you disrespected me.”
“Then I suppose I’d better make it count.” I slam the door behind me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DOMINIC
Tension has a smell.
It’s thick and damp with an overpowering stench of a strained rubber band being stretched to its breaking point. One more tug. One more push, and it’ll snap. I’ve smelled it for years. It has become as familiar to me as spicy cigar smoke.
That’s why I immediately recognize it the moment the elevator doors close. It seeps into every crack and crevice, making everything feel cramped even though Angel and I are the only two people inside.
I steal a quick glance at her out of the corner of my eye. The black skirt and white blouse I had Milly drop off this morning fit her like a glove. Paired with her sleek dark hair and classy black heels, she certainly looks like Hollywood royalty.
Until you get to her face.
Dark circles line her eyes as she stares up at the illuminated numbers, watching the floors slowly tick away as we rise. She has her arms folded tightly across her chest and her lips pressed in a thin line. The same way they’ve been since I returned late this morning after visiting Luciano.
She said nothing as we fought another swarm of paparazzi waiting on my front lawn, and she gave me the silent treatment the whole drive from West Hollywood to Pasadena. Even when we arrived at the offices of Arroyo, Tate, and Wrenn, I barely parked the car before she hopped out and tore across the parking lot like her ass was on fire.
By the time we reach the tenth floor, I can’t take it anymore, and the rubber band snaps. “Okay, what the hell is wrong with you?”
