Chapter 59: Lukiyan

Look at the way she’s staring back at me.

That’s not just shock on Persephone Vittorio’s pretty face.

It’s arousal.

Yes, her sun-kissed skin has gone pale, but the slight hint of pink flushed over her cheeks and the fire flickering in her eyes reminisce of that night we devoured each other.

I wonder if she realizes she’s looking at me like she wants to fuck me again.

Just like that fated night when we met, her hand feels small in mine, and she looks tiny. Tiny like a little fairy. An erotic version of Tinkerbell with her round tits and shapely hips.

Fuck me. Not even five minutes into the job, and I’ve already lost the game.

And my shit. Like I knew it would, it’s grating on my nerves that she doesn’t belong to me.

I’ve spent the last few days prepping myself for this moment. I told myself I had to focus and couldn’t allow anything or anyone to get in the way of what I want.

Now that I’m standing in front of her, all I can think of is what it would feel like to be inside her again.

As the seconds tick by, I conjure the image of us angry fucking, where I’d slam her against the wall and fuck her so hard, she’d pass out.

Emilio clears his throat in an exaggerated manner, snapping us both from our daze. Instantly, Persephone pulls her hand from mine and forces a smile.

The black patch Emilio is wearing over his bad eye seems to overpower his face, but I can see the thin line of displeasure on his lips, showing he’s not fond of his daughter’s obvious interest in me.

And neither is her husband-to-be.

Raw jealousy invades Antonio’s eyes when I look at him and see I’ve already made an enemy of him.

“Nice to meet you,” Persephone says, cutting her father a cautious glance as if she’s checking for his approval.

I know from that brief exchange that he’s the dictator, and she’s the perpetual child.

“Likewise.” I keep my tone measured to mask my emotions.

“Lukiyan is the new bodyguard I was telling you guys about,” Frankie explains.

I did my interview with him first before meeting Emilio. The two look similar even though Emilio is older by ten years. Their personalities are where they differ. Frankie has a lighter temperament. His smiles come easy, while I can’t imagine Emilio smiling at all.

“Lukiyan will be moving into the guest house,” Emilio states, and Persephone stares back at him wide-eyed as if he just slapped her.

I’ll admit I was surprised to hear this was a live-in position, but it works greatly to my benefit for getting close.

This way, I’m exactly where I need to be for as long as I want.

“The guest house?” Her voice comes out in a stutter, and her skin actually goes paler than it was before.

“Yes. I trust there will be no problems.”

“No. Not at all. There won’t be any problems.”

Liar. We both know I’m the problem. A very big one, but she’s a problem for me too.

“Don’t worry, I have my eye on her,” Antonio says, giving me an insincere smile as he slips a possessive arm around Persephone’s tiny waist.

I could almost laugh. The motherfucker is trying to show me who she belongs to. Prick. I’d love to set him straight and inform him that I had his woman first.

“I’m sure you do.” I dip my head, playing the game as issue my own phony-as-hell smile.

When he plants a kiss on her forehead, I don’t miss the way Persephone goes rigid against him.

She looks trapped, which tells me what I need to know about their relationship too. Or at least what I want to see, which is that she doesn’t want him.

She doesn’t look at him the way she looks at me.

I’ve been in L.A. for the last three days, checking things out with Aleksei.

I did my research on this idiot too, as thoroughly as I looked into everyone else I’ll be interacting with while I’m here. Antonio Marchesi is a year older than me and we pretty much have the same background when it comes to education and interests. His family is nearly as wealthy as the Vittorios, but they don’t have the same power.

While I know never to underestimate anyone, to me he’s seems just like every other entitled fucker in their circle who thinks they own the world.

“Alright, you’ve met everyone now,” Emilio says before the awkward silence and tension can fill the space between us. “We have a busy schedule, so we’ll catch up with you all later.”

“I guess I’ll see you later, then,” I tell Persephone.

Her amber-colored eyes become more rounded as she catches the hidden promise in my words.

We need to talk.

She’ll know that.

There’s no way either of us can pretend Brazil never happened. More importantly, I need to make sure she doesn’t pose a threat to me and compromise my goals.

Now that I’ve seen her and witnessed the interaction between her father and fiancé, I feel more confident that she won’t be. But I need to be sure.

Failure is not an option. This mission is too important for me to go on assumptions. I don’t want to risk fucking this up in any way, shape, or form.

“Later, yes.” She nods with a slight clench in her jaw.

Although her eyes cling to me, I don’t look back when Emilio motions toward the door.

We leave Frankie with Persephone and Antonio and proceed down the corridor. I can still feel her gaze on me when I’m out of the room, but I break the connection from my awareness so I can focus.

“Let’s go to my office first so we can finish the paperwork and talk some more about the job,” Emilio suggests, glancing at me out of the corner of his good eye.

“Sure.”

We continue down a winding hall that looks as classy as the rest of the mansion. It has black marble floors, creamy satin-wallpapered walls and chandeliers hanging from the ornate ceiling, which shows Renaissance paintings akin to the Sistine Chapel in Rome.

The entire house reeks of power, not just the power that comes from being wealthy, but the type of power that stamps ownership on a person. Or people.

In the Bratva, we have ownership like that. But unless you are the Pakhan with your name attached to the empire, you’re owned by him too.

Emilio takes me to his office, which is on the same floor but on the other side of the house.

His office, full of antique-looking wooden furniture and a shelf with leather-bound books, is exactly what I would expect for someone of his caliber. The scent of leather and power fills the room, along with that ominous presence of the unknown.

Emilio’s wary of me. I can sense it.

He can’t figure me out, and he’s trying to. I know the bastard is even questioning his decision to hire me, although I got the job hands down because I was the best suited.

What I had were the right kind of references to make me look good on paper, and to him.

In the Bratva, we have all the right connections to make anything look the way we want. So when I handed Emilio references from Miguel Hernandez, head of the Diaz Cartel in Colombia, and Cillian Montgomery, head of the Irish mafia in New York, I knew I had the job. Emilio has worked with both men many times over the last two decades. They’re also the kind of men of power those from the Camorra are drawn to.

What he doesn’t know is that they have a secret alliance with my Pakhan.

Emilio Vittorio is no fool. I’m sure he at least suspects something, but he’s a man of facts. He wouldn’t cut off his nose when he’s already lost an eye. Especially when there’s no evidence of duplicity or malevolence.

I could be wrong about the distrust I’m sensing. Perhaps it’s not that at all and what he can smell is my thirst for vengeance.

Maybe he can sense that I want to slice his throat and cut out his heart so he can watch me chop it into pieces and serve it to his dogs for dinner.

All in good time. All… in good time.

“Take a seat.” He nods to the chair in front of his desk, and I sit.

He sits too, in his winged leather chair and reaches for the humidor on his left.

He opens it, holding it out to me so I can take one of his Cubans.

I do to be polite.

He takes one for himself and lights both our cigars, all while keeping his good eye trained on me.

“May I call you Lukiyan?”

“Of course, Boss.”

“Great. Lukiyan. My daughter is beautiful, isn’t she?” The question throws me and I’m not sure how to answer other than with the obvious.

“Yes, she is.”

He searches my eyes, still trying to figure me out. My professional poker face, however, is one that offers iron-clad control over my emotions so I can keep people out. The only person who could see through the windows of my soul is dead. I couldn’t keep anything from my sister, even though she succeeded in keeping so much from me.

Taking a drag on his cigar, he slowly releases the smoke. “She takes after her mother in appearance.”

He points to an oil painting on the wall opposite us of a beautiful young woman who indeed looks like Persephone. The only exception is her platinum-blonde hair.

I’m amazed Emilio has a painting of his dead wife when he’s been remarried for the last three years. There doesn’t appear to be any pictures of his new wife in here, nor of his daughters. I’d learned Persephone had a twin who died two years ago.

While his wife was murdered on these very grounds along with his older brother in what could only be described as a massacre, there was no cause of death listed for Persephone’s twin, Athena.

I think either she killed herself or something more sinister occurred that Emilio doesn’t want people to know about.

Every family has secrets. I’m sure this one is no different.

“The resemblance is striking,” I observe.

“Indeed. But she’s like me in every other way.” His lips move into a ghost of a smile, then return to a hard line. “Nevertheless, she’s also young and impressionable and unavailable. Understand?”

Loud and clear. Daddy Dearest is handing me the warning to stay away from his daughter. It’s a warning I would follow with ease if I didn’t know what his princess tastes like.

“I do.”

“Does that mean I can trust you to keep your dick in your pants?” His expression grows serious, and there’s a murderous look in his eyes.

“Yes, you can.” I say the words even though he looks like he doesn’t believe me.

“Good. I’m glad we have that understanding. You come highly recommended by men I know who don’t stand for shit. I don’t stand for shit either. You’re going to be living in my home and I don’t want any trouble.” He straightens. “Persephone is promised to Antonio. They will be married in three weeks and moving to Italy. While she’s still in my care, I need to know you’ll take care of her if anything happens.”

“Of course.” I narrow my gaze and puff on my cigar. If I’m not mistaken, he sounds like he’s expecting something to happen. “Is there something I should be aware of?”

I feel like a hypocrite asking that question when I’m the wolf in sheep’s clothing out for blood.

“All I need you to do is keep your eyes open. Your time will be split between this house and the hotels. Watch the place and eliminate any threats. But if something happens, especially to me, I want you to get my daughter to safety. Can I trust you to do that, Mr. Romanechka?”

I’m amazed. At first sight, he seems to be a man who doesn’t care much about anything, but he wears his love for his daughter like a heart on a sleeve.

“You can.” As I say the words, I feel like I’m not just assuring him.

I’m saying them for myself, too, because she feels like mine to protect.