Twisted Obsession (Underworld Kings)

Mario chuckles with me at the last sentiment. I never had a brother. Being an only child is lonely. It's a life I wouldn't wish on anyone. Perhaps that's why the Familia means so much to me. I needed connection, and with Mario, it was always there for me.

"I can't leave you," he tells me finally, and I let out the breath I've been holding. Relief washes over me. It's selfish to want him to stay, but I never claimed to be a good person. "Firstly, the moment I walk out, you'll be in danger, and I don't trust any other man to watch your back."

When he's silent, I ask, "And secondly?"

"Well, someone has to stop you from killing the poor girl," he whispers conspiratorially. Asshole. "She's a good person."

"Too good for me," I admit what I've been thinking since my brief encounter with her earlier. "I don't know what my father was thinking when he drew up this damn contract. It wasn't revenge, that much I can tell you."

"What? You think he did this just to torture you in his absence?"

I nod. "Of course he did. You know how much he always used to tell me I would marry one day, even when I denied it repeatedly. But I miss him," I confess in a whisper. "I know how to run the family, but I don't know how to live without his advice."

I've never once admitted this to anyone. Not even Mario. If people see any weakness in a Boss, they'll take advantage of it, and my reputation is not something I'm willing to toy with.

"I know. I get it, but you can do this. You have an army backing you," he informs me confidently. "And you have a woman who is strong enough to put up with you," he tacks on afterward.

"Speaking of which, it’s time you fuck off. I need to have dinner with said woman," I say, hoping to lighten the mood.

I don't talk about emotions, but the thought of losing Mario after losing my father conjure up those feelings. I shove them back in the box, lock it up tight, and school my features as I hang up and stalk toward the dining room.

The table is set for two. Wine glasses are already filled with a supple red, and our plates are piled with dinner. The food smells delicious. All that's missing is my fiancée.

I settle at the head of the table facing the rest of the apartment. The penthouse isn't home, it's merely a hideout in the city. While the house my parents owned, where I grew up, stands empty, I spend my time here.

One day perhaps I'll show Luna the house that will forever be tarnished for me. We both lost people we loved. We're both alone, if not for each other. The realization hits me hard, but I shake it off. She doesn't deserve kindness. If it wasn't for her father starting a war, we wouldn't be in this position.

I focus on my wine, picking up the long-stemmed glass before bringing it to my lips. The lush alcohol coats my tongue and I savor the flavor as it hits my tastebuds. And that's when Luna walks in. Over the rim of my glass, a vision assaults me, and once again, I'm speechless.

Draped over her body is fabric the color of sparkling champagne. The glittering dress hugs her curves like a second skin. Her porcelain skin a beautiful contrast to the golden material. When she steps toward me, her left leg appears through the ankle to thigh slit. Her heels are thin, straps of glinting gold. Everything about her shines, and then she offers me a smile.

"Is this respectable enough for you?" Her brow arches as she regards me through long dark lashes. Her shoulders squared, her spine straight, and her chin tipped in defiance.

I want to smile. I want to laugh, but I don't give her the satisfaction of such a reaction. Instead, I rove my gaze over her, taking her in from head to toe, and back to those olive-green orbs that pierce right through me. It's as if she's trying to find a man behind the mask, but she won't be able to because there isn't one. Not anymore, not for her.

"Sit." I turn away from her and focus on my plate. Lifting the silver dome which covers my dinner, I set it aside, and mimic the motion with her plate as well. When she doesn't obey me, I glance at her once more. "I don't like repeating myself."

"And I don't like being treated like an object, like a subservient child," she bites out, hands on her shapely hips, her mouth pursed in frustration. "If you cannot acknowledge me, then I'll eat in my room. Alone."

"You look lovely," I say, my voice barren of any emotion. "Now sit."