Most people are too terrified of me to be this mouthy.
Emma Brennan hasn’t learned that lesson yet.
“Can’t complain,” I reply, leaning against the doorframe and crossing my arms. “The kidnapping business is treating me well. Good benefits, flexible hours, the satisfaction of making your father suffer. It’s fulfilling work.”
“I’msoglad.” Emma’s voice drips with sarcasm as she sets down her pencil. “It’s important to find purpose in your career. Have you considered adding ‘ruining innocent women’s lives’ to your resume? Really highlights your skill set.”
“It’s implied under ‘mob boss.’” I walk further into the room to check that her breakfast tray is empty. It is. Good. At least she’s eating now. “Along with ‘general menace to society’ and ‘dashingly handsome villain.’”
Emma makes a sound that’s somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Dashinglyhandsome? Someone’s got an inflated ego.”
I shrug, sitting down on the couch. “It’s not ego if it’s true.”
“It’s definitely ego.” She’s looking at me with this expression that’s half exasperation, half something I can’t quite identify. “And for the record, you’re more ‘generically threatening mob boss’ than ‘dashingly handsome villain.’ The scar through your eyebrow is a bit much. Very on the nose.”
I reach up and touch the scar reflexively, feeling oddly defensive. “This scar is from a knife fight. It’s badass.”
“It’s cliché,” Emma corrects, but there’s a glint in her eyes that might be amusement. “What's next, a facial tattoo? A mysterious past you brood about? Maybe a tragic backstory involving—” She stops abruptly, and I watch her face redden as she remembers that I actuallydohave a tragic backstory involving her father murdering my brother.
The moment stretches awkwardly.
“Too soon?” she asks finally, her voice quieter.
“Little bit,” I admit, my jaw tightening. I don’t want to talk about Gabriel right now. I don’t want to think about why I’m trading barbs with my enemy’s daughter instead of making her as miserable as her father made my family. “Eat your breakfast. Take your vitamins. Try not to plot my murder too enthusiastically.”
“No promises on that last one,” Emma mutters, her cheeks still pink, but she doesn’t push the Gabriel thing, which I appreciate more than I’d care to admit.
This is how it’s been for the past week.
I come in, we verbally spar with each other, she insults me creatively, I remain infuriatingly calm, which pisses her off even more, and eventually I leave feeling oddly energized in a way I can’t quite explain.
Emma fascinates me, and that’s a problem.
Most people cower in front of Leo Santoro.
They stammer and sweat and try to tell me what they think I want to hear.
Emma spits fire.
She looks me dead in the eye and calls me a cock-juggling thundercunt without flinching.
She threatens me with her family’s vengeance like she actually believes Connor’s going to storm the estate successfully next time.
She’s whip-smart too.
Our arguments aren’t just insult exchanges—they’re actual verbal chess matches where she anticipates my responses and adjusts her strategy accordingly.
She’s stubborn and absolutely refuses to be a victim, and there’s something about that that I…
No. Shut up, Leo.
“What are you reading?” I ask, noticing the book on her bed, trying to redirect my thoughts to safer territory.
“Wuthering Heights.” Her tone suggests this should be obvious. “You know, a romance about toxic people being terrible to each other. Feels appropriate for my current situation, don’t you think?”
“I thought you’d prefer the Italian literature I provided,” I say, keeping my voice neutral even though I know this is going to start something.
Emma’s expression turns incredulous. “The Italian literature you provided? You mean the pretentious garbage you assumed I’d want to read because what, I’m an educated young woman so I must love Dante’sInfernoand Machiavelli?”