by Bella King
Which brings me to the next possibility. What does he actually want from me?
No, not what does he say that he wants from me. What is his end-goal with all of this, and is any of it really even about the painting?
Mafia bosses don’t give away their real intentions just like that. I know that Pierre was lying to me about something, but they tend to mix truths in to confuse you. I have plenty of experience with that, but I also think Pierre knows who he’s up against.
But the woman he confronted in her flat isn’t the same woman who fought nail and tooth to keep her freedom when the legal system was leering over her, eager to throw her behind bars with a tidy life sentence. That woman is coming back at the first sight of a threat, and there’s a fighter there that doesn’t run and hide.
I’m sure I can take on Pierre and figure out his little game, but I’ll have to figure out what he really wants first. The quickest way to bring someone to their knees is to take their greatest desire and threaten to burn it to ashes. It’s to squeeze their heart in your hand until they die or surrender to your orders.
Sure, Pierre was able to do that to me because he came in quickly, and I didn’t expect this when I arrived in Paris. I thought I was finally free, but instead, I was walking into an even worse situation.
But I’m not without ideas. If it’s the painting Pierre wants, I’m going to make sure of it before I make my next moves. I can still get a grip on this situation and turn it around, despite Pierre’s crooked smile and formidable physique. This is a game of wits more than it is of brawn.
So, without making much of a fuss, I gather up my things, heading home early before Charles has a chance to scold me again. If he asks about my absence, I’ll just say I was feeling under the weather. Being in a foreign country and eating new food can make a person’s stomach uneasy, and I would hate to puke all over one of his expensive paintings.
I smile to myself as I make my way to the exit. I’m sure that Pierre is waiting for me, watching my every move. He might even try to confront me in the street, but I doubt it. He’ll probably just follow me to the grocery store and freak out every time I open my mouth to speak to someone. I bet he’s sweating more than I am.
The thought makes me calmer, but I know it’s probably not true. I don’t have any power yet, but I’ll be damned if I let him have it all. I don’t break that easily. I’ll show him what it means to be a mafia girl.
Chapter 18
Pierre
There’s nothing quite as attractive as a woman in thick black stockings.
I take a drag of another hand-rolled cigarette as I watch Shaye walk from the gallery, going a different way than her usual route home. She’d better not be up to something, or that pretty body is going to be a mangled mess on the side of the road, an unfortunate hit and run without any witnesses.
But the thought of having to do something so drastic to a woman who was simply born into the wrong family makes my gut twist into a knot. I don’t like killing innocents, but I’m not above it. I just don’t want to have to do it to Shaye.
For her sake, I hope she doesn’t try anything in this alternative route home, but I have to follow her to be sure. I exit my car, cigarette hanging from my lips as I pull my long black coat tighter around my torso. The world is a cold place.
I follow Shaye, keeping enough distance to where she wouldn’t be able to make out my face if she were to turn her head, but also to where I won’t lose sight of her figure. How could I when she swings her hips like a pendulum and tosses her golden blonde hair over her shoulder with such innocent carelessness?
I feel like even more of a beast when I’m around her, and I like it. I’ve always chased the high of being the dominant one, the alpha that nobody is willing to cross.
She might have an attitude on her, but she’ll submit to me. In some ways, she already has.
Shaye dips into a shopping center, disappearing from my view. I should wait outside for her because she’ll probably be coming out through the same door that she came in through, but there’s no guarantee. She might know that I’m following her and attempt to shake me off by going out through the other side of the building.
I quicken my pace, heading into the shopping center after her and just barely catching a glimpse of her coat as she whips around a corner. She walks with purpose, not like how she first approached the gallery the day that I spotted her. I’m pretty certain that was her first morning at work, judging by her hesitation.
Now, her true colors are beginning to leak out from her pale skin. She’s more mafia than she probably thinks. I can sense that in a person, and I can feel that in her. I need to be careful because she could probably twist this on me if I’m not.
Then I really would have to eliminate her, and to do that to an American in a foreign country would raise a lot of eyebrows. I’d risk a full-on manhunt if I wasn’t careful about it.
I hurry past a crowd of shoppers, bumping shoulders with a few of them and not giving the least bit of a damn about it. Nobody should be standing in my way when I plow through a hoard of idle shoppers.
I round the corner that Shaye disappeared behind, only to jerk to a halt in an instant when I find Shaye standing there with her hands on her wide hips, apparently waiting for me.
“I have myself a stalker, it seems,” she says, scanning me with her eyes in a way that I would expect from a schoolteacher.
I put my hands up. “You caught me,” I reply.
She tilts her head to the side, a lock of blonde hair falling out of her loose ponytail and lying across her slender shoulder. “I guess you can help me carry the bags.”
I scoff. “I’m not shopping with you, Shaye. I’m just making sure that you don’t do anything stupid.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Is going to the store stupid?”
“No, but going to the police would be.”
She laughs. “Jesus, you’re paranoid.”
“I’m not,” I reply defensively.
“You totally are, but since you want to follow me around like a lost duck, you can help me with the groceries,” she says, turning around to walk into the grocery store tucked in the back of the shopping center.
“I’m not helping you,” I say, but I join her by her side as she walks.
She glances at me. “All that muscle, and you can’t lift a couple of bags?”
“Of course, I can lift them, but I don’t help the enemy.”
She laughs again, shaking her head like this is all just a game. “You’re cute, Pierre, but I thought we were on the same side. I mean, I’m the one helping you, so you should also be helping me.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” I reply, growing annoyed by how casual she suddenly is about this whole thing. If I had to bet, it would be because we’re out in public, and she knows that I can’t do anything drastic here. Once we get back to her flat, however, the dynamic will flip into my favor, and she’ll regret playing around with me.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Shaye says, grabbing a plastic basket and thrusting it out to me.
I stand rigid, refusing to take it from her.
“Oh, come on,” she groans. “Don’t act like a baby.”
I glare at her, snatching the basket from her hand.
“Better,” she says, walking ahead of me and leading the way into the store.
I’m not in the business of taking orders from others, but there’s something that drives me to listen to Shaye, if only after putting up a bit of resistance. I won’t let myself be caught off guard by her, but at the same time, I feel more comfortable around someone who was once part of the mafia. We share something, even if that’s the only thing we share.
“Are you planning on coming home with me?” Shaye asks, pulling a tomato from an arrangement on the table beside her.
“Yes, we need to talk about whether or not you were successful in your mission.”
She scoffs. “Do you have to talk like that?”
“Like w
hat?”
She turns to face me, dropping two large tomatoes into my basket. “Like we’re cosplaying the military. Why don’t you just talk normally?”
“I don’t want people to know about what we’re doing,” I reply.
“You mean about the painting?” she asks loudly.
I grab her coat, yanking her closer to me. “Just shut your mouth, alright? I don’t need you causing trouble out in public.”
She pulls away, shooting me an annoyed look. “You’re no fun.”
“This isn’t supposed to be fun. I’ll be out of your life just as soon as you do what I want,” I grumble.
“Do you know what those are?” she asks, pointing at the two tomatoes in my basket.
I frown at her sudden change of topic, but I’m also relieved by it. I don’t want her blabbing on about my criminal plans in public. You never know who could be listening.
“Tomatoes,” I reply. “I speak English too, you know.”
She shrugs. “The French used to call them love apples. Did you know that?”
“No,” I admit.
“Yeah,” she says, turning around and continuing through the store. “They thought they might be an aphrodisiac or something when they were brought over from Spain. Kind of like chocolate.”
“You know a lot about tomatoes,” I say, amused by her explanation.
“I’m a romantic. Art, language, and I guess food too, are all my passions,” she says. “What about you?”
I wasn’t expecting a friendly conversation once she caught me following her, but I’ll take what I can get. At least she isn’t defying my lead.
“I like art,” I reply. “Thus, the mission.”
She laughs from her nose. “Again, with the cosplaying.”
“I’m not cosplaying. If you were actually interested in the arts, you would know the importance of being subtle.”
She throws a box of pasta into my basket, harder than she needs to. “Don’t question my artistic knowledge. I didn’t spend my entire life in the mafia, only some of it. I went to college.”
“So, that’s what you’ve been doing all of these years, huh? Studying away in a library? That’s cute,” I say with a smirk.
“It beats the hell out of being in prison,” she replies.
“I’d consider it more of a vacation than anything.”
“Doubtful.”
“No, really. I’ve had a lot of time to think,” I say.
She runs her hand along a shelf, reaching up as high as she can while standing on her toes. The curve of her calves and the backs of her thighs leading up to her ass drive me wild with lust in an instant. My cock throbs and I move the shopping basket over my crotch to hide the bulge there. I shouldn’t be this deep into sexual temptation, but the softness of Shaye’s body causes a stiffness in mine.
She looks back at me, and I avert my eyes from her ass.
She frowns. “Uh, and what were you thinking about?”
“Huh?”
“In prison, what were you thinking about?” she asks, dropping a tea tin into my basket.
“Oh, uh, women, mostly,” I reply, being entirely truthful.
“I suppose it’s been a while,” she says.
“Not like I couldn’t take whoever I wanted,” I brag. “I had access to the female prison guards, but I have higher standards than that.”
She shakes her head. “Sure.”
I detect sarcasm.
“Well,” she says, moving further along the aisle and snatching a bottle of wine from the shelf. “Since you’re coming over later, you might as well join me for dinner.”
“Just a quick conversation,” I reply.
She pouts her lips. “Please…”
“Why are you acting this way?” I ask, raising my voice.
“What way?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” I growl. “You’re up to something.”
“I don’t have any reason to play games, Pierre, but I do have reasons to be nice to you.”
“And why is that?”
She bites her bottom lip. “Maybe we should talk about that when we get home.”
Chapter 19
Shaye
Pierre is breathing down my neck the entire way home, but at least he’s carrying my grocery bags for me. I made sure to buy way more stuff than I normally would since I knew he’d break down and do the heavy lifting.
I find good in every situation, no matter how dark. I’m just not excited about admitting to him that I failed at lowering the price of the Red Door painting that he wants so much. That’s going to sting.
“Do you even have a place to stay, or are you sleeping in your car?” I ask as Pierre places the grocery bags down on the kitchen counter.
“None of your business,” he grumbles, annoyed with me about having to carry so much.
What a baby. Clearly, he’s not used to being around a woman with any sort of self-respect. I bet he only goes for the easy ones.
I twirl a strand of hair around my finger as I watch him start to remove things from the bags and place them around the kitchen without me having to ask. Men like him never get locked down, but if he did, I’m sure it would take a hell of a woman to do it.
She’d be lucky.
I recoil at my own thoughts, mentally berating myself for even considering Pierre to be husband material. The man can probably fuck, but I wouldn’t come close to him in a romantic sense even if he paid me to. It’d be the biggest mistake of my life.
Still, I watch Pierre’s wide shoulders rock as he takes things from my grocery bags and places them up on the shelves in the kitchen. He could’ve done anything with his life, and I’m sure he would’ve been just fine, but he had to choose the mafia. It’s the only thing that ties us together, but it’s also his only apparent flaw.
“Let’s talk about the painting,” Pierre says without looking toward me.
My stomach sinks. I have no idea what his reaction is going to be, but I’ve softened him up all that I can before the blow. I hope he doesn’t freak out on me.
I move closer to Pierre, scooting past him in the narrow kitchen and opening one of the cabinets that he just put groceries away inside. “Well, I was thinking we could eat dinner first.”
“I’m not eating here,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Really? Because I prefer to talk over food.”
“I’m assuming you don’t have good news,” he grumbles.
“I didn’t say that,” I reply, taking the box of pasta from the cabinet.
“You didn’t have to. Your actions imply it.”
“Could you fill a pot up with water?” I ask, spinning around to face him.
My eyes widen when I realize how close he’s gotten. He’s barely more than four inches away from me, and his eyes are narrow with suspicion. He’s not amused by my stalling, but I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to tell him that I’ve already failed.
I guess I don’t have to if he already knows.
“How much is the painting now?” Pierre asks me directly.
I swallow hard. “Um, it’s like, you know… half a million euros,” I say, my voice fading into a whisper in the back of my throat.
He sighs, closing his eyelids slowly, then opening them up and giving me a death glare. “Plan B it is, then.”
“What’s plan B?” I ask, letting out a breath as he steps back.
He grabs the pot already on the stove and runs it under the sink, filling it up two-thirds of the way with water. “Plan B is how I get my painting since you’re too incompetent at your job to do it the easy way.”
“Seriously?” I ask, growing annoyed at his attack on my professional abilities.
“Yeah, seriously,” he snaps. “And you’re lucky I don’t kill you for failing the first time.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not going to kill me, Pierre. You need me.”
“I don’t need you,” he replies.
“Want to bet on that?”
“No, Shaye, I don’t want to bet, and I’d advise you not to gamble with your own life. It’s not smart,” he warns.
I slide my finger under the box of pasta, breaking the loose glue that seals the cardboard. I step toward the stove and pour half the box into the pot before the water is even boiling. The flame isn’t even on yet.
“I assume you need me for plan B, too,” I say, lighting the stove.
He shrugs. “We’ll talk about it over dinner.”
“I thought you weren’t staying for dinner,” I say, looking up at him.
He smirks. “I changed my mind.”
I squint at him, curious as to what he’s up to. It’s been ages since I ate a proper meal with someone, and even if he is my worst nightmare, there’s something oddly comforting about having him over for dinner.
“I don’t have anywhere to sit, as you can see,” I say, waving my hand around the room. “Other than the chair in the corner.”
“We’ll sit on the bed,” Pierre says.
“Oh, are you in charge or something?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“That was meant facetiously.”
He grins. “And I don’t really care. I think I’ll make myself comfortable.” He finally removes his coat, revealing a crisp white button-down underneath it. He’s even wearing a tie, which is rare to see on men these days.
I try to tear my eyes away from him as he continues to remove clothing, but it’s impossible with how good his body looks. It’s a cruel joke that a man who only wants to use me has a body built in prison and the face of an alternative model.
I watch as he unbuttons his shirt, revealing a thin white t-shirt underneath. It clings to his pecs, revealing the blur of tattoos etched into his skin underneath. His shirt lifts as he throws his arms up to toss his button-down onto the chair, and I catch a quick glimpse of his defined abs beneath it before the fabric covers them again.