Mafia Boss's Secret Wife

Chapter 7: Dancing parter

I can’t hold back a mocking huff and the roll of my eyes which seem to amuse him. Thomas smiles and I can feel my cheeks turn a shade brighter. I fold my arms on my chest and rest my weight on one of my legs as I eye him with distrust.

He nears me, eyes pinned on my face like a stalking hawk. But he doesn’t stop in front of me. He turns the stereo on and without an ounce of shame, he takes hold of my phone. Another eye roll from me. I drop my arms and arms with a huff and start walking away. Might as well pack and go home.

I manage to take a few steps, to put some distance between us by the time the song starts.

Eat your young by Hozier starts playing and I can’t help but feel a little intrigued by the strange choice. My guard drops for a moment, and like the predator he was, he was already behind me, and his arm snakes around my waist, hand brushing over me, as he pulls me against him, my back flushed to his chest.

My heart skips a beat and I swallow the yelp that bubbles in my chest.

My jaw clenches and my skin turns to goosebumps while his other hand trails up my arm, from my wrist, all the way to my shoulder, his fingers skimming over the exposed collarbone.

“I don’t want you here, Thomas.” I mutter, ignoring the way his breath brushes against my cheek.

“Don’t make me ask you again, Persephone…” My name rolls off the tip of his tongue in a way that has me thinking he has been practicing how the name feels on his tongue.

The arm around me moves, brushing over my hip and slowly down my leg, before gripping my hip and forcing me to turn around. The momentum of the turn has me a little out of balance, and I reach out and grip the buttoned up shirt he wears. His hand is pressed against my lower back and he doesn’t hesitate to press me against him once more.

My nails dip harsher into the material of his shirt and for a brief moment, I wonder if I could rip it out of anger. Would he slap me? Would he be angry that I damaged his fancy and expensive shirt?

“I won’t.” I answer after a short and silent moment. “Next time you’ll have to beg me for it.” The words thumble right out of my mouth in a sharp breath, a whisper, as my eyes trail over his face, that is near enough that I can feel his breath.

“Still cocky, I see.” He murmurs, those gray eyes of his moving over my face, and stopping somewhere around my lips.

“That’s what my mouth is for. Better get used to it if you decide to stick around like a bad fart.” I comment as he forces me to follow him along with the sound of the music.

“All habits can be unlearned.” He answers with enough confidence to make me weigh my next words.

I fall silent, because something tells me that my own tongue could be the death of me in front of this man. And what started as a cringy side to side sway turns into something a little more alert as we both focus on the rhythm of the song and on the other. A strange push and pull feeling, a duo of curiosity and disgust that makes me move and pour some of passion into this interaction.

To my surprise, Thomas is a skilled dancer, capable of not just leading his partner around, but reading and anticipating their movements. Oddly enough, he manages to synchronize with me almost throughout the whole song.

The whole thing holds tension. The way he grabs me, the way he holds me, the way he brushes his hand over my hips, waist and stomach, the way his fingers brush against my palm- all make me wonder if he is enjoying this or someone forced him to come and do this.

But everything comes to an abrupt stop, when in the heat of the moment, as I turn around, I reach up to touch his face. He grabs my wrist and suddenly turns to stone, his brows narrowing and his gray eyes darkening. The speed of his reaction has me startled and a gasp escapes me.

The force he grips my wrist with is harsh enough to snap something in half, but that’s not my concern right now. His other hand was pressed on the revolver at his side, ready to pull it out, as if I had been nothing but a threat right now. As if he weren’t just dancing… sharing a strangely intimate moment without actually doing so -

The muscles in his jaw hammer with obvious distrust, anger and maybe disgust as he glares down at me with a sense of betrayal.

“Thomas -“ I hiss, through gritted teeth. “You’re hurting me!” I tug on my arm to set it free.

For what feels like an eternity, he stares at me unmoved and untouched by my pain, before he drops my hand in a shoving motion, as if he was discarding something completely useless.

I stumble backwards, relieved and startled at the same time.

It was as if he was a completely different person from the one I had danced with. Once more, I was facing the greedy heir of the mafia boss that runs the city. The man who used me as a c*m rug two weeks ago and saw fit to pay me and move on, and once more, my spite bubbles.

I hold my wrist with my hand and my eyes narrow once more. Two slits as I glare at him, my shoulders squared and my anxiety spiking through the roof. He flexes his fingers and pulls his hand away from the revolver at his side, eyes closing slowly, while his other hand runs through his carefully styled unruly hair, brushing it backwards and away from his forehead.

A hum escapes him with a sharp exhale. His stance suddenly relaxes and I feel as if I could just lurch forward and grab that gun and point it into his chest. But I know better than acting rash now. The man didn’t seem to be in his right mind, and all I needed right now was more hospital bills.

“How much do you rent this place for?” The man asks, as he starts walking around, suddenly interested in the studio, and not me.

“If you’re here to talk rental, you haven’t found the right person.” I answer, following him with my eyes.

“I’m here to talk business.”

“I’m not the right person for that either.” I hurry to answer as I look down at my bruising wrist.

“Well, I’m sure you are smart enough to put two and two together.”

“I can’t sell you or rent you this place. It doesn’t belong to me!” I hurry to bark back, obviously annoyed with his ass attitude.

Thomas stops, his back to me. He is in front of the closed window, staring out, lighting a cigar and taking a long puff from it. He holds his breath for a second, before he exhales slowly, a cloud of harsh smoke surrounding him.

“I’m here to buy you, not your studio.” He speaks, his voice flat and dry, watching me through the reflection of the window.

Buy me? Did I hear that correctly? Just how much of an ass could this man be?

I stare at him in disbelief, weighing his words. My mouth is slightly rounded and my brows come together in a deep frown.

“But of course-“ he gestures vaguely with the hand that holds his cigar before taking another long puff from it, “- I could buy this place too. Could ruin your little business. Could pull the plug on your mother and have you begging for me to -“ he stops and shrugs his shoulders coldly. “I don’t know? f**k and pay you over and over again?”

He speaks with such detachment from his words that I don’t think he is human right now. How could you just spit this in someone’s way? How could you consider so much of a superior in order to degrade people around you like this?

“Pardon me?!” I speak, utterly confused and offended by his outrageous offer.

“You haven’t touched the previous pay. Even if you are behind on every bill. You spent your last savings on your mother’s treatment, haven’t you?” He seems to be scolding me. “Why didn’t you use the money-“

“f**k you!” I spit out the words with enough hatred to cloud my mind. “f**k you and your money!” I bark and throw my arms up in frustration. “Who the hell do you think you are?! You are nothing but a f*****g moron!” I continue, my heart deafening my own words and thoughts.

I don’t need to see his face to know he is amused. I can see it in his posture. There is a slight shake of his shoulders as he huffs in amusement, while he puts the cigar out on the window sill.

“A moron who can take care of all your problems-“

“You are my problem, Thomas! You and you only!”

“Is that so?” He asks with a smirk on his lips, while he closes the distance between us.

He pinches my chin and forces me to look up at him, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. The smell of his cigars clings to him, making it harder to breathe. Or maybe it was the anger and all the tears I fought so hard right now.

“Earlier things seemed slightly different. Almost looked as if you were-“

“That’s a mistake I am willing to admit!” I interrupt him, much to his amusement.