Chapter 3 003

Contessa

I say to Salvatore Mori two extremely risky words in a moment of suicidal bravery: "Make me." I am made by him. What else could I have expected? When it comes to birthday greetings, I don't recall requesting to be slung over the broad shoulder of a dashing 6'4 mob boss and taken away, but here we are. What a beautiful paradox Salvatore Mori is. His mugshot-style appearance on the homepage of the FBI's most wanted list and his appearance on the front cover of GQ magazine would be perfectly appropriate. If there is a formula for human appeal, such as the Bad Boy Golden Ratio, this man has figured it out.

His face has high cheekbones, deep eyes, and subtle, sharp angles that are enough to make the TSA disapprove. He has a clean shave. Perhaps the scar on his cheek is the reason, or perhaps it's just that no man would cover up a jawline like that with a beard. He seems like the kind of man who shaves with a straight razor-old school, menacing, and sophisticated all at once. He looks well-groomed, as though he just walked into this club from a barbershop, with his black hair combed back on top and tapering into a crisp fade around his ears and neck. Salvatore Mori may have a flair for fine clothing and haircuts, but that doesn't change the fact that he appears threatening. like a snake that is unable to conceal its true nature. A chilly smile and black eyes. Devilish glances that, if I allowed them, could carry me away with little power at all. Perhaps I ought to have allowed them. Compared to this circus act, it would have been more respectable. He is far more powerful than I am. The music that shakes the structure drowns off my calls for assistance. I kick frantically at the air and pound my fists on his back. Somewhere in the slender hallways that run through the rear of the club, one of my brand-new high heels takes off and disappears. The fact that I am so naively turned on makes me feel even more ashamed. A part of me enjoys how he abuses me and how powerless I am under his control. similar to carrying a youngster to her timeout. A truly dangerous man's attention has awakened something wild and reckless in me. He ignites my blood in a way that no one else has. "Sal!" Down the hallway, a voice yells. I'm not sure who it is, but my ass draped over Salvatore's shoulder is what he sees when he first sees me. Sal responds, "Noctus." He lets me stand up again. It's not chilly enough in here to explain why my nipples are hard, so I cross my arms over the front of my torn dress, feeling exposed. Lance sits on the ground near the exit, bewildered, rubbing a towel into his bleeding head wound. This foreigner, Noctus, is between me and the only other obvious exit, while Salvatore towers between me and the path back. How in the hell did Lance end up? He has trouble speaking. Was this something she did? Noctus's gaze flickers to me and my unkempt appearance. "My property was touched by your brother. I corrected him. The expression of Noctus shifts. Outrage to confusion. "You? "You had the opportunity to murder him," Noctus replies. "I might still." Noctus is just made more agitated by the baritone threat. I try to read Sal's expression as I look into it. He exudes the serene calm of a stormy day, right before a tornado tears through a town. Despite Lance's younger appearance, he and Noctus resemble siblings. Are they both Salvatore's relatives? My father mentioned the Moris family, and I wish I had listened more. Salvatore goes on, "Your brother is a walking liability." Like a dog in a rut, he was playing around in the storage area once more. I don't give warnings twice, and I told him once not to try that nonsense under this roof. With no sympathy in his eyes, he looks at the bleeding youngster on the ground. "The fact that he chose who he did was his second error of the evening." For the first time, Noctus gives me a serious look. I watch his face light up with recognition as soon as it hits him, bringing with it his disdain and loathing for me. "The girl from Lovera?" He utters my name on his lips like a curse. It hurts to be so familiar and hated by a total stranger.