One
My hand trails the back of her neck, guiding her through the entrance of the lobby and out onto New York pavements. She’s such a delicate flower in my hand, malleable. Valuable to me. She’s my truths.
And lies.
The fingers squeeze tighter, just enough that a small whimper sounds from her lips. I smile at that and remember her screams, the way her throat fits so effortlessly around me. Nothing more comes from her, though. She gently braces against me and continues walking, her long strides owning the floor. Not that she does. I do.
“What time will your meeting be finished?” she asks. I twist her to me, one hand reaching for the door to the car. It will be done when I’m damn well finished. That's how this shit works.
“Later. Get in.”
She slides her ass in with a grace no other woman compares to. Tanned legs pull in after, knees together and ankles crossed. Perfect, as always. She’s everything a woman should be and more. Charming. Hardened. Always proficient in her glare and constantly aloof in her stance. Stunning.
And mine.
I kiss the back of her hand and slam the door closed, anger flaring towards the next event that needs discussion. It’s become a fucking priority in the last half an hour—something that needs tending and delivering with my own touch to ensure the world continues to understand the merits of not trying to fuck me over. “Goodnight,” I say, watching the car pull away.
Goodnight and good luck.
That might be what she needs after this shit is done.
My feet turn back into the ornate lobby, my eyes uncaring for any danger that might follow me. Nothing would dare. Not here. Not anymore. I own this city, have done for years, my father before me crafting the start of this empire. Politicians kneel. The underworld tows itself in whatever direction I choose to take it, and the rest do as they’re told without conversation or rebellion. There's no need for fear anymore. No care for anything that might attempt threatening me. We're calm now. Smooth. Untouchable.
“Mr. Vico,” the doorman greets me, nodding as he swings the glass frame wide for me again.
“Joe.” I slip him some bills on the way past, not sure why, but his wife is cute. Fuckable. Perhaps I’m interested in her. “You watch the Yankees?” He nods and smiles, grasping the money.
“Have a good evening, Mr. Vico,” he calls from behind.
My hand tips at him, a half wave letting him know he did well. Precise. Smart. In accordance with what I desire of the place I own. Not that I own the building, but I own the guy who does. He pays monthly for the privilege of owning floor space in my city, and in return, he gets to run it as he sees fit. If that's done well, he's allowed to keep paying me. Wheels turn smoothly.
It works for me. Him, too.
Not that he has any choice.
It’s classy, though. He's successful. It's filled with luxury and decadence. Crystal chandeliers on the ceilings. Italian marble lining the floors. And wealth populates the guts of the place, all of the people bowing and scraping to him, and therefore me, constantly.
I. Own. It. All of it.
It’s the same in the next place. And the next place. And the next. That’s how it works in New York. Has done since my father died and I became the next Vico in line. Life turned to stone for me then. Not that it was pleasant before,but the mask dropped fully into place and delivered heartless thoughts to anyone who dared breathe wrong. That's the way he trained me. The way he taught me.
And now it's who I am.
The shame of it is, there is a man in the private room I’m heading for who’s questioning that. We’ve been here all night. Talking. Negotiating. Discussing what he, or they, might be able to offer me so they can creep into my turf some more. He’s American bred but Yakuza in nature, sent here to talk to me about allegiances. I don’t join up with anything but the woman I just sent home—Hope Winters.
My eyes swing back along the lobby before I turn for the privacy I need, imagining that dress and her curves inside it. She’s the one thing I do join with. The only thing. I fuck into her like she’s part of me, for some reason enjoying the feel of her around me. I haven't worked that shit out yet. Whatever the reason is,though, the fuck in this room I’m approaching dared to look at her.
And that pissed me off.
“Boss.” Danelo glances at my features as I take my jacket off and hand it to him, giving a nod regardless of my lack of response. I don’t need to answer. He saw it, too. He watched the leer of interest coming from the guy as we left the room and understands what looking at her means to me. She’s no one else’s but mine, and the scum inside this room just blew whatever offer he might have thought prudent out of the fucking window. Stupid.
He opens the door for me and then closes it behind me, his body pressed against it to stop anyone walking in. Not that it would matter too much if they did. I’d own them in an instant, too. Money and threats buy everyone's tongues from them.
“Vico. Get your pretty girl off?”
I half smile and watch the guy, giving no answer as I move to sit at the table again. Dessert first. Always room for dessert. It’s a weakness I choose to ignore.
“She’s gone home.”
