Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
“Remo Falcone, he is my Capo. My boss if you want.”
“You think highly of him.”
He nodded once. “Of course.”
I had a feeling he wasn’t just saying it because he had to. Cheryl had sounded terrified when she’d uttered Falcone’s name, but there was no fear in Fabiano’s voice.
“We didn’t come here to chitchat, remember?” he said with a grin. “Now let’s get changed.”
Without a warning he unbuckled his belt.
I turned around with a surprised gasp. “You could have warned me.”
“I could have, but I didn’t want to. I intend for you to see much more of me.”
I glanced around for a way to get some privacy but the room didn’t provide any. There weren’t any stalls, only lockers and an open shower area. Oh, damn it. I pulled down my jeans shorts and quickly slipped on the boxing shorts, then turned around. Fabiano’s full attention was on me as he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his bare chest. I’d forgotten about that little detail of fighting with him. He didn’t wear a shirt when he was in the cage. My eyes trailed down to his dark blue boxers that hugged his narrow hips with the delicious V disappearing in his waistband.
“And?” he asked.
I blinked at him, tearing my eyes away from his chest. “And?” I repeated.
“Does it fit?”
How could anything not fit that body?
I realized he meant me. “Oh, the shorts, you mean? They are a bit loose but it should be fine.”
“You look sexy in them,” he said in a low voice.
My face blazed with heat.
“Don’t forget your knife. I want to see you use it.”
I bent over my backpack, glad for my hair hiding my blush, but he’d probably already seen it. I grabbed the knife and straightened. He opened the door and waited for me to go through. His warm scent wafted into my nose as I passed him. I had to get a grip on me. We headed back to the beautiful game room and I continued toward the boxing ring, glad to focus on something else than the dangerous, muscled man behind me.
“Not that way,” Fabiano said, a smirk in his voice. I turned and he pointed at the fighting cage to the right.
“In the cage?” I asked, horrified.
He jumped up on the elevated platform of the cage, grinning like a shark. “Of course. I want to see how you deal with stress.”
“Great,” I muttered. “As if fighting with you weren’t stressful enough.”
He held out a hand to me. I slipped my hand in his, and his fingers closed around me, warm and strong, and he pulled me up. I bumped against his chest and he held me there for a moment. I peered up into his face. The glow of the chandelier above our heads let his hair appear golden.
But a golden boy? No, that’s not what he was.
“I thought we were going to fight,” I whispered.
His lip curled. “Just seeing how much more uncomfortable I can make you,” he said.
I glared. “What makes you think this makes me uncomfortable?”
His smile widened. “So it doesn’t?”
I untangled myself from his hold and pointed at the cage door. “How does this thing open?”
He pressed down the handle, looking way too full of himself.
I stepped inside and goose bumps rose on my skin. I thought I could smell old blood beneath the prominent smell of disinfectant and steel. Fabiano closed the cage with a quiet click.
“I don’t get the appeal,” I said as I looked around the cage. “Why do people enjoy being locked into a cage like animals?”
“It’s the added thrill of not having an escape. The cage is unrelenting.”
I nodded, fumbling with the knife in my hand. The biggest chandelier dangling from the ceiling right above my head appeared more daunting than decorative.
“I want to see you handle it.”
I pressed the button that released the blade. It gleamed in the golden light.
I held the knife out.
Fabiano crooked his fingers invitingly. “Do what you would do to an attacker.”
I held the knife a bit higher, my palm closing tightly around the handle.
Fabiano was stifling a smile, I could tell. For him this was probably more than a little entertaining.
“Attack.”
I took a step forward but he bridged the remaining distance between us and feigned an attack. “Try not to lose your knife.”
I tightened my hold further, even though it seemed hardly possible. But before I knew it, Fabiano was there, in front of me, tall and imposing and muscled, and so at ease with what he was doing. There was a short painful pressure on my wrist, and the knife clattered to the ground. I reached for it but Fabiano was quicker. He twisted the knife in his hand, admiring the blade.
I glared. “It’s not fair. You are much stronger and more experienced.” I rubbed my wrist. I hadn’t even seen what Fabiano had done.