Possessed by the Killer (Dark Possessive Mafia)

I reluctantly followed, dragging my suitcase behind me. An older woman answered the door, pink cheeks, white hair, big smile. She looked like the kind of lady that sold gingerbread on TV or something like that. Warm and kind and welcome. “Come on in,” she said, gesturing.

“Thank you, Bea,” Uncle Roy said, politer than I would’ve expected.

Bea winked at me as I passed her. “Welcome to the Valentino house,” she said. “I know, it’s a little stuffy. Dean says he wants to make changes. What’s your name again?”

“Mags,” I said.

“I’m Bea.” I shook her hand briefly and she smiled huge. “I hope you stick around for a while, but of course there’s no pressure. Dean’s eager to see you again.”

I smiled back despite myself and swallowed my sarcastic reply. For some reason, Bea soothed me a little bit, or at least made me want to break someone’s face a little bit less.

We headed down a side hallway and ended up in a large study packed with books lining massive shelves. A huge desk stood in the center of the room and a small table next to it was covered in expensive-looking bottles and cut crystal glasses. Dean sat behind the desk with a tumbler of something brown at his elbow.

“You came,” he said, sounding surprised.

“Told you she would,” Uncle Roy said. “I make good on my promises.”

Dean didn’t even glance in his direction. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks as he stared at me like I was some butterfly on display. That kiss lingered on my lips like a ghost, his taste on my tongue all over again—whiskey and cherry stems—and my back shivered at the intense desire for his touch.

He was young and handsome, so unlike all the other old mafia guys I knew. My father hung around with the other old-timers, and in my mind, the mafia was made up of overweight middle-aged men that hung around strip clubs like in The Sopranos.

Dean wasn’t like that at all. He wore a slick, expensive suit, and his dark hair was perfectly styled. He smiled at me with straight white teeth, and his cut jaw made me feel dizzy. His arms were muscular, his chest broad, his shoulders wide and powerful.

“Why don’t you leave me and Mags alone for a bit?” Dean asked.

Uncle Roy shifted from foot to foot. “You sure?” he asked. “I can help. I know there are details—”

“Go,” Dean said, glaring at him.

I didn’t bother to hide my smile.

Uncle Roy glared at me. I knew what he wanted to say. Don’t be a mouthy bitch. We need this. I resisted the urge to flip him off before he turned and stormed out.

Dean let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think you’d come back,” he said.

“I didn’t think I would either,” I said and hovered behind a chair. I didn’t want to sit. Sitting meant I was staying, and I didn’t want to stay. “But my uncle got a little too excited when he heard your offer.”

Dean nodded a little. “I was afraid of that. Did he tell you that I’m good for it?”

“He did,” I said. “He also told me that you’re impotent and you like to beat your girlfriends.”

He smiled at that. I was trying to goad him, to piss him off, to give me some pretext to get the hell out of here. But he only shook his head.

“I doubt that,” he said and tilted his head. “I meant it when I said I wasn’t going to force you into this.”

“Right, since buying me is so much better.”

He laughed. “Good point, but at least you’re getting something out of this that way.”

“What do you want from me?” I asked, suddenly angry.

“I want your uncle’s support,” Dean said. “You’re a symbol. But now I’m starting to think you’d be fun to have around.”

“I don’t think so. I’m very unpleasant.”

“You’re nice to look at.” He leaned forward. “And a good kisser.”

“Oh, god,” I said, looking away, feeling the heat in my cheeks. “You surprised me, okay? I didn’t want anything to do with—kissing you.”

“Right,” he said, “of course you didn’t, that’s why you’re blushing like a little girl right now.”

“Shut up,” I said, and took a deep breath in, slowly letting it out. Got to keep myself together. “I don’t want to marry you, okay? Not for a million per year.”

“Two million per year,” he said. “Up to ten million. So five years all in.”

I stared at him and my jaw fell open.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked, head spinning. Five years for ten million dollars was insane. I’d be thirty, still young, and very, very rich. I could do anything, go anywhere.

I’d be free. My father couldn’t touch me and my uncle couldn’t tell me what to do.