Prologue One
Catarina - age 29
“Is this seat taken?” a man with a deep husky voice asks, and I don’t need to look up from my drink to know who it is.
“I think you already know the answer,” I respond before bringing the glass of Macallan 18 to my lips and taking a sip. I stare straight ahead, my gaze skirting around the barman pretending not to listen. I don’t blame him for his nosiness. He must be pulling a double, if not a triple, shift. As the busy private airport lounge has cleared out, I have noticed him glance at his watch, with the worn brown leather strap, a total of thirty-seven times. He's clearly itching to get out of here. It is Christmas Eve after all. The platinum band encircling his ring finger suggests there’s a wife waiting at home, maybe kids too.
“It’s never smart to assume,” the handsome stranger standing on my right says.
Setting my glass down on the polished marble counter, I swivel on the bar stool as I slowly lift my head. Inquisitive forest-green eyes latch on to my face, widening with growing interest as he drinks me in. “True.” I deliberately part my lips as the tip of one finger elegantly traces the rim of my glass. His gaze rakes over my face before lowering to my body as he blatantly checks me out. “But you have been staring at me long enough to know I’m alone.”
That’s not technically true. Renzo accompanied me on this business trip, and he’s currently watching these proceedings with hawk eyes from his position at the small table by the window.
We have worked together long enough for Renzo to understand how I like to do things. He knows boredom set in hours ago, as we wait impatiently for news of our flight to Philly. Unlike my underboss, I have zero desire to get home in time for Christmas. But Renzo knows I can’t sit still for any length of time without growing agitated.
I need something to take the edge off.
And the perfect distraction has finally made his move.
I know what this stranger sees. I am aware of my allure. It has taken many years and dedicated investment to cultivate it. To hone it into a weapon I regularly use against men. Slowly tipping my head to one side, I allow a soft smile to dance over my lips as I conduct my inspection of his handsome features and hot body.
He’s sexy as sin with attentive sultry green eyes and lush full lips. His chin and chiseled jawline are coated with a thick layer of dark hair, neatly trimmed and extending around his mouth, as is the fashion these days. Along with the eyebrow slash and the way the blue-black hair on his head is shorn tight at the sides and worn longer on top. High cheekbones, a strong nose, and olive skin hint at European origins.
Ink creeps out from under the cuffs of his crisp white shirt and covers his hands. More tattoos are visible on his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. The shirt is stretched snugly across his broad shoulders and bulging biceps, and the material is high quality and clearly expensive. Designer black pants hug muscular thighs, and black dress shoes complete the look. I know his suit jacket rests on the back of his stool, and he’s not wearing a tie.
If I had to bet on it, I’d say he’s mafioso. Though he’s no one I know or have come across, which means he can’t be anyone important. I would know because I have made it my life’s mission to know every key player across the US.
His tempting lips pull up at the corners in arrogant satisfaction as he watches me take my time ogling him. This man is seriously gorgeous, and he knows it. He’s even better up close. I spotted him checking me out the minute he entered the lounge an hour ago. Most other men would have approached me before now. But a man who looks like him doesn’t often have to chase women—if ever.
It's obvious he was waiting for me to approach him.
I smother an internal laugh.
As if I would ever lower myself to such a travesty.
Men crawl to me when I beckon them. It’s never the other way around.
“You’re married,” he says, finally cutting through the tension building between us. His stunning eyes drop to the constrictive gold band wrapped around my fourth finger.
I cross my feet at the ankles, ensuring his eyes are drawn to my long slim legs, showcased perfectly underneath the fitted white Chanel dress I’m wearing. It hits just below my knee when I’m standing, but seated as I am now, it rests above my knee, offering a glimpse of toned tan thighs.
He doesn’t disappoint.
Men never do in this situation.
Flash them a pretty smile, a hint of smooth silky skin, and feign interest, and they fall for it every time.
Not that I’m doing much faking on this occasion. This man is sex on a stick, and lust coils low in my belly, for the first time in a very long time.
Sex is rarely for pleasure.
Most always it’s business.
On the odd occasions where I indulge, purely for the release, it usually disappoints.
Something about this man tells me he won’t let me down.
“So?” I shrug, maintaining eye contact as I take another sip from my drink.
His grin expands. “I guess I have my answer.”
And I guess I have mine. La famiglia have many traditions. Not all are adhered to by everyone. But there are exceptions. Like mafia wives. There is a code which most made men abide by: You don’t mess with the wives.
Either this man has no honor or no moral compass or he has no clue who I am. Most likely it’s all of those. Which suits me fine. I don’t need to respect him to fuck him, and I seldom like the men I let into my body.
His attention is laser focused on me as I drain my drink and stand. “A woman with discernible tastes,” he says, his approving stare locked on my curves as I straighten to my full height. “Color me intrigued.” With supreme confidence, he cups my face with one hand while his fingers trace a path over my hair. “What’s your name?”
“Let’s not waste time with such trivialities,” I say as he removes the tie from my hair, freeing my long dark-brown locks from my ponytail.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, weaving his fingers through my hair as it tumbles down my back in straight sheets. “You should always wear your hair down.”
“I don’t take orders from men.” Grabbing my purse, I subtly nod at Renzo.
His lips twitch. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” I drill him with a look as I remove his hand from my face and the other one from my hair. “If you want this, it happens on my terms.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the sound doing weird twisty things to my insides. “Are you always this forthright?”
“Are you always this slow?” I trail my fingers up the hard planes of his impressive chest through his shirt.
“There is this thing called foreplay.” He waggles his brows, and holy hotness, I can barely drag my eyes from his face because his features have come alive, and he truly is a sight to behold. He’s like a reincarnated Adonis—a creature designed to snare women with just one look.
“There is this other thing called time.” Reluctantly, I tear my gaze from his, looking over his shoulder at the digital board mounted to the wall. “They have just called boarding for my flight.”
Clasping my hand, he holds it firm as he ushers me toward the exit. “I can be quick.”
“Don’t I fucking know it,” I mumble under my breath, yanking my hand from his. Usually I’m grateful for the two-pump chumps, but I would enjoy more than a quickie with this man because I already know he won’t disappoint.