Page 80 of Corrupted Sinner
He cocked an eyebrow. “Isn’t it convenient then that you happen to have a skilled ‘crime sleuth’ in your custody?”
I scoffed, then remembered who I was scoffing at and covered it quickly with a cough. It wasn’t my finest acting moment. “I’m afraid our crime sleuth guest is about as cuddly as a cactus,Signor. And about as talkative as a cactus too.”
Enzo shook his head. “I’ve watched you,cara—since you came to New York with Vito. There’s this energy about you, very much like your mother,” he said, once again making unwelcome questions pop up like tiny neon signs in my head. Because how exactly had Enzo Luciano known my mother?
Before I could ask, he pressed on.
“People gravitate toward you, Greta; they light up when they’re around you. They listen to you.”
“Grazie,” I said awkwardly when he paused.
His lips twitched in a smile—not something Enzo Luciano did often. “My point is I doubt there are many people not affected by it, your agent guest included.”
You did hear the cactus part, right? I kept that question to myself.
“I appreciate your kind words,Signor,but I’ve tried talking–”
“There isn’t much of a line between talking and interrogating in circumstances such as these,” he cut in. “Justbe, cara,and the woman will gravitate to you.”
And then, just in case this conversation hadn’t been strange enough, Enzo Luciano leaned in, kissed the top of my head, and disappeared out the Costas’ front door.
At the same time his car started down the driveway, I heard movement from the office. Someone was going to walk out the office door any second now.
I shook my head. “Nope, that’s it,” I said aloud to myself.
In second grade, Mrs. Ortega had taught us about “mental moments”—as she called them. Little periods of time she encouraged us tiny people to take to collect our thoughts and such when the math lesson got overwhelming or the bratty jerk sitting behind you wouldn’t stop pulling your hair.
Grazie, SignoraOrtega,I thanked the woman silently as I slipped out the front door and hightailed it to my car.
Because right now, Greta seriously needed to take a mental moment.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Greta
SignoraOrtega had never mentioned anything about whiskey shots or loud techno-music when she’d taught us about mental moments. Personally, I think that’s just because the school board would have given her a hard time about it. In my opinion, these moments were far more effective with a buzz in your veins and music so loud it drowned out your own thoughts.
Onyx—the Costas’ nightclub—wasn’t my first venue of choice, but I wasn’t actually as reckless as some people liked to think. With Domínguez’s men still lurking around, the Costa club, with its bouncers and bartenders who all knew me, was the safest place for an escape.
But despite the near-deafening music, words continued to roll around in my head over and over again.
“I just know I’m not finished with you yet, and I don’t think you’re finished with me either…”
“Dominguez has a front boss. Whoever you met isn’t the man you’re looking for…”
“It’s rather unique, don’t you think? ...The ability to capture images so permanently in the mind?”
Even with a buzz in my veins, this mental moment sucked.
I put my third—or maybe it was my fourth—empty shot glass down on the bar and spun around on the stool to leave, not that I had any great idea of where I was going. Then I froze.
The biker god was walking in through the club’s front door. The way he moved, confident, like he knew he was king and had nothing to prove, would have made you think he owned the place. It was a good look on him. So good, I think every nerve ending in my body sparked to life, waiting, anticipating. Which was ridiculous.
This “just fucking around” had passed its expiration date. But all I could think about was his ripped pecs and his jacked arms. And the way his lips formed the word “darling” and how it rolled off his tongue. And the way he’d followed me here when nothing in the world could have stopped him from finding an easy, new lay at his clubhouse—or anywhere. And how, if anyone had the mad skills to fuck away all my troubles, it was Brute Hastings.
Like he could sense me through the crowd, his eyes found me unerringly. Eyes that grazed over me as he came closer, making my stomach knot tighter in indecision even as my skin tingled in anticipation. The tingling was better than the buzz coursing through my veins.
I glanced around, curious, and sure enough, at least half the female patrons had spotted him already. They watched him, eyes hungry and eager. Even when he passed right by them, their hungry gazes followed him. I couldn’t blame them. Once you caught sight of all that jacked muscle, you kind of never wanted to take our eyes off him—even after you’d fucked him too many times and should have been more than ready to move onto something new.