Even though he knows damn well I don’t have aheart.
We walk into the manor house together. It’s exactly what I pictured it would be: expensive paintings, rugs, pristine light fixtures, everything in its place and shining.Wealthscreams from every surface and pore, and it makes me uncomfortable deep in my muscles. I’m tense, like something might jump out from behind the walls and scream,you don’t belong, you don’t belong. I didn’t grow up a poor boy—my family always had money and power—but compared to this, I might as well have been a pauper.
All that’s changing. I’m taking the Scavo Famiglia into the future, starting with the acquisition of a big stake in the Rowe Oil, and the acquisition of a pretty little blue-blood wife.
Her name will open doors for me that would’ve otherwise stayed firmly closed.
When we reach the study, Gareth does most of the talking. Graham Rowe offers us drinks and sits down behind an absurdly big desk while we’re stuck on these little rickety chairs that must’ve been built for aliens. Certainly, no human could ever be comfortable in a thing like this. I’m half listening as my best friend slash lawyer hammers out the details, at least until Graham looks at me over his whiskey, his eyes shining with hate.
I love that hate more than I ever dreamed I could.
It fills me with a deep, righteous burning.
“I have one stipulation,” he says, his old voice like the grind of a dying engine. “Brice is waiting for you in the sitting room, and if you want this—” He clears his throat and scowls. “—thismarriageto happen, you have to get her to agree.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Getting her to agree is your responsibility.”
“It’s in the paperwork,” Gareth adds helpfully.
“Screw the contracts. I’m not going to force my granddaughter into anything. I did my best to convince her, and now it’s your turn.”
I stare down the old man for several long moments and he looks right back. He knows who and what I am, but the ghost of the business titan he used to be still lingers behind his wrinkled and aging eyes. I respect that, grudgingly.
I nod to him and stand. “Gareth, finish going over the details, please. I’ll speak to Brice.”
Old Man Rowe watches me leave. I find the housekeeper already waiting in the hallway. She leads me to a sitting room in an adjacent wing before backing out and closing the doors behind her.
My heart does a double-take. It’s surprising, the way my body betrays me. Even though I tell myself I don’t care about this girl, that I hate her and everything she represents—her purity, her lordship, her unearned privilege—my body still wants what it wants.
Brice sits on the couch with her back ramrod straight, her hands folded in her lap, with tea service on the coffee table in front of her. She says nothing as I step into the room, ignoring the ornate clocks, the oil paintings, the absurd throw pillows and blankets, looking only at her.
She hasn’t changed a bit.
White sweater. Navy slacks. Conservative clothes for an uptight girl. I bet her clenched jaw could snap a dime in half. Her hair’s in a bun, and every strand is in place. Her nails are blue, her teeth are straight, and her pretty pink lips show signs of having been chewed lately, probably from nerves.
She’s gorgeous. Fucking beautiful. Brice has always been stunning, even if she hides it under generations of elite breeding. She gives off this attitude of looking down at everything from a thousand-mile cliff, as if talking to a man like me might infect her.
There’s a reason I wanted to tackle her into the dirt back at that softball game—Brice Rowe is incredible in a way that I find horrifying.
She makes me want to break her.
She makes me want to shove her face in the mud and fuck her from behind.
It’s pure animal lust.
I want to drag her down to my level—make her roll around in the filth, make her scream and moan and beg, make her come again and again, come messy and sloppy, come wildly and out of control, come with my name on her lips, come so hard she loses her mind and lets all those perfect walls down for one fucking second so I can see the real person beneath the armor.
I want to strip her bare and see how she bleeds.
This is dangerous. I know this isn’t smart. Gareth’s right—a clever man would marry a nice mafia princess, one that knows how to shut her mouth, pump out the babies, and obey the Famiglia.
Brice Rowe is definitely not that.
I walk over and sit on the couch opposite. She says nothing as I pour myself some tea. It’s still warm as I stare at her and bring the cup to my lips. She’s shaking very slightly, but doing her best to hide it.
“I would’ve been safe,” I say after the silence begins to get unbearable.
Her eyebrows raise in surprise. “You would’ve been—what?”