BLOODLINE BARGAINS WITH THE MAFIA

Not an Uber, Genius

Reign:

The car hums beneath me, leather slick under my hand, and I lean back, letting the warmth of the heated seat seep into my bones. Holt and Griffin apparently think a little “pre-dinner time together” is necessary. Cute. They don’t realize I’m fully aware that this is just insurance—that my father wants me on time. That’s all. The rest, the “social engineering” part, the charm exercise, the small talk, it’s just icing. And icing is boring.

I watch the streets through the tinted windows, people moving in their carefully curated chaos. Their lives look… free. They walk hand in hand, gossip in their earbuds, arguing about mortgages and brunch, unaware that in some families, marriages are contracts, not choices. I almost laugh at the innocence.

And then I see her.

A shadow in black, moving with that careful precision only someone born into a world of wealth and rules could master. Petite, curvy, every inch of her radiating an attitude that says don’t touch me while screaming notice me anyway. Her heels click against the pavement like a metronome keeping time with my pulse.

That has to be her.

She stops at the door, and for a split second, the world slows. I blink, adjust my tie, make sure my jacket isn’t rumpled—the effortless version of charming chaos. Because I can already tell this will be fun.

She opens the car door and slams it like it’s a challenge. And I love it immediately.

“Who the hell are you?” she barks, eyes flashing icicles that could cut me if I let them.

I lean back, let my grin spread across my face. “I’m—”

Cut off. She doesn’t wait. She launches into a tirade, arms crossed, voice sharp and sweetly venomous:

“I’m not up to offer charity. I’m not investing. And no, I won’t help you with whatever you’re selling. Now get out!”

My grin spreads wider. Oh, this is going to be good. I press my palm against the seat next to me, motioning her toward it. “This is my ride,” I say casually, letting the amusement in my tone do the work.

She scoffs, voice dripping condescension. “This isn’t an Uber, genius. This is my private car!”

I raise a brow. “Ah.” Pause. Let her simmer. Let the tension thicken the air. “And I’m your future husband.”

She freezes, and for a moment, I can see the gears turning behind those dark brown eyes. Then, finally, she shuts up. Thankfully.

I study her in silence, noting the way she sits, arms crossed, posture perfect, like she’s daring me to make a move I can’t undo. The faintest crease of irritation between her brows, the tilt of her head—it’s exactly what I wanted. Challenge. Fire. Pride. All packed into five-foot-four of untouchable ice.

I lean back, pretending to stretch, letting the leather seat groan under me. The city moves past the window, unaware of the storm coiled in this black car. My gaze drifts over her again. She’s dressed impeccably in black, heels clicking against the floor mat, a clutch resting on her lap. Hair pulled perfectly, makeup pristine. I can practically feel the armor she wears, a perfect barrier built to keep men like me away.

Well. That armor? I like armor. It means someone has something worth protecting. And I’ve always liked a challenge.

“You look… tiny,” I say finally, voice low and teasing, dangerous. “And so frigid. Almost like someone tried to sculpt a Windsor out of ice and forgot to put a heart in it.”

She snaps her head toward me, glare sharp enough to pierce steel. “Try again. That’s not going to work on me.”

I chuckle softly. “Oh, I’m not trying to work on you. I’m observing.”

“Observing?” she hisses, crossing her legs like she’s ready to spring. “You mean sizing me up to exploit. I can see right through you.”

I let my grin curve. “I hope so. That’s… part of the fun, darling.”

Her lips press into a thin line. Eyes flick to the window. To the street. Back at me. It’s a subtle test—she’s measuring distance, space, dominance. And I’m enjoying the game far too much.

“I didn’t agree to this,” she finally mutters, voice quieter but no less sharp. “Not that it matters. Apparently, my opinions are irrelevant.”

I lean slightly forward, just enough to make my point without touching her. “Opinions are dangerous,” I say, voice smooth, low, silk with hidden steel. “They’re why most people in this city end up broken. You’ll want to learn how to wield yours carefully.”

Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t respond. Finally, I sit back and fold one arm over the seat. Eyes on the road ahead. She is watching me, still, I can feel it, coiled, icy, analyzing every twitch of my hand, every flicker of my grin. And I love it.

The hum of the engine is almost hypnotic. Outside, the city moves in glittering in the dying sun—the perfect backdrop for the two of us, untamed in a world that thinks it controls everything.

I can already tell this will be a game both of us want to win. And that thought alone sends a thrill up my spine.

“Relax,” I say finally, voice smooth as silk, a private invitation to chaos. “You’re stuck with me tonight. But…” I let my gaze sweep her entirely, letting her sense the intent without the need for words, “…I think you’re going to like it.”

She doesn’t answer. She’s too smart for that. Too aware. Too dangerous. And that’s exactly why I’ve already decided she’ll be more entertaining than anyone else I’ve ever met.

The rest of the ride passes in a tense silence—our first real truce: hers, quiet defiance; mine, amused observation.

By the time we reach the curb of the Windsor mansion, I know one thing for certain: this little Windsor girl thinks she can withstand me. I’m looking forward to proving her wrong.