Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(53)

“Depends,” I say. “Is telling you that I’d really like to f*ck your throat right now misogynistic?”

She blinks a few times, like she didn’t expect me to say that. “Would you say that to your men?”

“If something they said turned me on, I would.”

My hand shifts, from the back of her neck to the front of her throat, my thumb and forefinger against her carotid arteries. I don’t press hard, just resting them there, faintly feeling the blood pulsing through her system. Her heart’s racing.

“Is it even possible for them to turn you on?” she asks, swallowing thickly, her throat vibrating against my palm.

“Oh, without a doubt,” I tell her. “Nothing is impossible. But those guys, you know, they’re crude, kind of scuzzy, so they’re more likely to disgust me than get me hard. Still, though... I don’t like to rule anything out.”

I let go of her, relaxing back in my chair, and expect her to pull away now that I’m no longer holding her there, but she keeps her position, her hands coming to rest on the arms of my chair as she leans over me.

“Then I wouldn’t really call it misogynistic,” she says. “You’re more of an equal opportunity *.”

“Well, then, I guess we’ve got a deal.”

“Guess so,” she whispers, tilting her head as she licks her lips. She leans closer, the tip of her nose brushing against mine, her mouth a breath away when tapping echoes through the library.

Fuck.

I press my pointer finger to her lips, stopping her, and get to my feet, the movement pushing her away from the chair. Seven lurks near the threshold, holding my gun, freshly cleaned. Scarlet stands up straight, frowning, and I pause in front of her, gaze scanning her, before I pull my hand away.

Nudging her chin, I lift her face up.

She looks almost disappointed.

“Business first,” I say quietly. “Maybe afterward there will be time for some fun.”





Chapter Fifteen





The stench of bleach makes my nose twitch, thick in the air, burning my lungs as I inhale the odor. Ugh. The living room has been thoroughly scrubbed, faster than I thought humanly possible.

It’s clear, as I watch from the doorway, that this isn’t the first time this has happened. They seem more on top of things than the professional Crime Scene Clean-Up crews in the city, and those guys have plenty of experience.

Lorenzo stands just two feet or so in front of me, so close that I could touch him if I wanted. His plain white long sleeved shirt is all jacked up in the back from the gun he shoved behind him, right in his waistband. Freshly reloaded, I’m guessing. The silencer is no longer attached, fisted in his hand, as he stands there, staring at his black leather couch.

He’s trusting. Or maybe just reckless. I could snatch the gun from his pants and shoot him in the back of the head before he even knew it was happening. I’m not going to, of course. I’m just making a point.

I could.

If I wanted.

But I don’t.

“We could throw a blanket over it,” one of the guys says, breaking the silence. I don’t know his name. Hell, I don’t know his number. He’s just... one of them. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark features, dark voice. Everything about him is dark, down to his all black clothes.

They’re all wearing black, I realize, as I glance around the packed living room, except for Lorenzo, who dresses more like some hoodlum/model hybrid. It’s weird, right?

I don’t know.

I’m still not even sure what I’m doing here.

“A blanket,” Lorenzo says, not sounding convinced.

“Yeah, you know, or one of them covers,” the guy says. “The ones they put on couches. What are they called? Uh...”

“Couch covers,” Lorenzo says.

“That’s it!” The guy snaps his finger, pointing at Lorenzo, looking damn proud like that was some big revelation. “A couch cover!”

“That could work,” someone says—the oddball of the group, the lone blond guy in a room full of mostly Italians. “My granny has one of those on her couch, hiding this big ass wine stain. It’s ugly, you know, but it could do the trick.”

Lorenzo turns his head, regarding the blond, his expression as flat as his voice as he says, “You gonna go rob your granny of her couch cover?”

He shrugs. “Well, yeah, if you need it, sure.”

Lorenzo stares at him for a moment before turning back to the couch. I shift to the side a bit, peeking around him. There’s a bullet hole in the back of it, where the guy had been sitting. It’s not that bad, but it’s noticeable, which I guess is a problem.

“Just get rid of it,” Lorenzo says, waving toward it. “I’ll get a new one.”

The guys jump into action, teaming up and grabbing the couch, picking it up to move it.

They barely get it away from the wall when Lorenzo yells, raising his voice, damn near growling. “Put it back!”

The men are confused. You can see it in their faces as they cast him concerned looks, but I know what the issue is. Behind it, a hole is blown into the wall, a hell of a lot bigger than the one on the couch. Which, again, I’m guessing is problem.

They drop it back into place, stepping away, giving the couch a wide berth like it might attack them.