Page 30 of Revenge on the Mafia

So?

I’d avenge Papá. An eye for an eye, like he’d told me. I needed to put a knife in his throat. Why I even followed his request like a command, I didn’t know. Why I was even thinking about it when I couldn’t handle my finger bleeding was another mystery. Maybe he wouldn’t bleed… maybe I could get out before the blood spilled… what kind of knife should I even use… a bread knife won’t do… meat… just the thought of it… I blinked. Froze. I didn’t have to turn from his desk to know he’d entered the room silently.

The night before, I’d tried to poison him. Now he had me alone. A part of me wanted him to end it. Put a knife to my throat, bury me alive, call the police, let me go… the other part vibrated in suspense. Waiting for his next move. It was a game. His game. But I wanted to take part in it.

I didn’t hear a single sound, but I knew he was walking toward me. The duster in my hand was useless. My other clawed and came up with his paperweight. Cold marble. Heavy enough to be a weapon. Hopefully.

My spine tingled. The edges of his coat skimmed my back. He was close. Too close. He wasn’t giving me any space to turn and attack. I turned myself into stone and flattened my front to the desk.

His heated breath above my head ruffled the curls on my crown. A reprimand spilled from his tone. “Really, Anna. A paperweight?”

Two weeks ago, the gilipollas hadn’t spoken a word to me. Now he spoke my name, as if he were familiar with it. As if he’d used it with every emotion ranging from distaste to desire.

He shifted, and one hand came to rest next to mine. His big hand, strong and rough. Capable of taking a man away from his family. Mine soft. Too fucking fragile. They trembled around the marble, showing him how weak I was.

Pick it up and smash it on his head, for heaven's sake!

But the marble wasn’t a paperweight. In my hands it became a two-hundred-pound raw block pulled up from an open pit. He accentuated it by caging my hand in his. The touch burned through my skin. My grip slackened instantly. The paperweight rolled into his palm like a child’s plastic toy. He curled it in his hand and tossed it up. It landed effortlessly back in his palm.

“I thought Andalusian girls were firecrackers. Where’s your fire, Anna?” Anger coiled in my veins. Eleven years of being numb. With two sentences, he’d smacked it flat to the ground. Fury ramped up my body. I spun around, my breathing heavy.

“¿Crees que tengo miedo?”

His eyes flashed. They weren’t hidden behind cold crystal anymore. “Sí.”

I choked through my breathing. ¡Joder! He understands Spanish?

With his gaze on me, he confirmed it. “I do think you’re afraid.”

Joder.

I was drowning in him. I tried to rationalize my fear. It shouldn’t have mattered, anyway. The only thing I shouldn’t do is show him my fear. I forced myself to lean forward, and I put my face right in front of his. “Eres un puto gilipollas.” There. He could understand that.

His entire body went rigid. My fear melted away into a satisfied smirk.

“Calling me a fucking asshole is only going to get me harder, Anna.”

I froze.

He exhaled.

Awareness sizzled through my veins. I’d pushed myself into him. He hadn’t backed off. But held on to his place, tensed. Rigid. A block of stone that I was feeling from head to hip. Especially around the hip. I stumbled back. My breathing stuttered as I tried to catch up with the change. He stared at me for what seemed like an hour, when it couldn’t have been more than a minute. Then, slowly, he gave a shake of his head. Glanced to the side. Like he couldn’t believe what he’d said. I felt the heat of his presence in every fiber of my skin. When his eyes came back to me, the shutters were down to his soul. “Let’s not get distracted, shall we?” His tone snapped like a whip. Like I was the one who’d said those inappropriate words.

I didn’t get to tell him off before he shut me up.

“Stop being a coward and get on with it.” He grabbed my fist. I fought him, taking the desk back a few inches with me. But his grip was unyielding. Made a mockery of my mission, proving each sharp word snapping out of him. “This is the way to hold it.”

¿Qué pasa? I couldn’t follow him. When he dropped his gaze to my hand, I followed it. My breath snagged in my throat. Curled in my fist was a knife. Small. Sharp. Deadly.

My hold relaxed. A sound of irritation rolled from his throat. “Tighter. You need more force.”

What the hell is this. “¿Qué demonios es esto?” I choked out.

“It’s a knife.”

It might as well have been a rattlesnake. I knew it was a fucking knife. The handle was wood. Warm to the touch. Like someone had held it for a long time before pressing it into my hands.

“¿Qué demonios es esto?” My voice broke.