BLOODLINE BARGAINS WITH THE MAFIA

Nice Place. Shame About the Company.

Ellie:

So much for my plan. Every single carefully constructed scenario I’d run through in my mind—the witty retorts, the perfect posture, the controlled expressions—had already begun to unravel the second I saw him in that backseat.

Spoiled. Little. Playboy. Every cliché condensed into a six-foot-two grin that could get away with murder and leave you thanking him for it. I’ve seen men like him before, but never this… this combination of arrogance, charm, and something darker lurking just below the surface. He looked like trouble in a tailored suit, and he knew it. He owned it.

I shifted in the back seat of my car, heels planted firmly, spine straight, even though he was too close for comfort. The leather smelled faintly of money and authority, a scent that did little to soothe the rage simmering under my composure. I’d been told once that men like him could sense weakness a mile away. Perfect. I would give him none.

The car slowed, pulling into the long, tree-lined drive of the Windsor estate. Already parked in front of the manor were two cars: my father’s signature black luxury sedan and… his. I hadn’t even registered the other one until now, the tinted windows, the way it seemed to crawl closer to the mansion like it belonged to some other world entirely.

“Nice place,” he said from shifting in the seat, voice low, teasing, smooth as aged whiskey.

I shot him a quick glance, one raised eyebrow communicating my precise level of annoyance. “Yes. All brick, stone, and arrogance. Hardly anyone could survive a day without crumbling under it.”

He chuckled, a sound both playful and dangerous. “You’d be surprised. Some people thrive under pressure.”

I turned to face forward again, letting the comment roll off me like water off marble. “Pressure is not a suggestion. It’s a requirement. Unlike—say—manners, or a sense of responsibility.”

Another chuckle. That infuriating, low, amused chuckle. “Ouch,” he said. “Someone’s feisty.”

I pressed my lips together. Feisty was one word for it. Calculated, icy, untouchable, venomous… yes, I liked my descriptors longer. “I’m many things,” I said coldly. “You’ll figure that out soon enough. And I suggest you do, quickly.”

The car rolled to a stop. Doors opened, leather boots and polished pumps stepping onto the cobblestone drive. I could hear the faint click of his shoes behind me.

Reign lingered in the doorway of the car, hands in pockets, casual in a way that made my skin itch. He didn’t move to help me. Didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t even pretend to care.

I opened my door, letting it swing with a precise force to announce my entrance. “Shall we?” I asked, tone clipped, calm, dangerous.

“I think you’re forgetting something,” he said, stepping forward like he had the right to invade my personal space, which he absolutely did not. “I’m supposed to be charming you first. A little meet-and-greet before the terror of your father’s dinner party?”

I froze, every hair on my body tensing. My voice remained even. Controlled. “I do not require charming. I am fully capable of enduring your personality on my own. Believe me, it will be… a trial for you as well.”

He raised a brow, clearly enjoying this. “Trial? I like trials. Makes the victory sweeter.”

I stepped past him, heels clicking against the stone as I walked toward the manor. He fell into step behind me, but not close enough to intimidate. Not yet. I would allow him nothing. Not here, not today.

“You walk like you own the place, or something,” he said, voice low, teasing, deliberate.

I didn’t look at him. “I do. Step carefully. I have a tendency to bite when irritated.”

“Biting, huh?” he murmured, almost to himself. “I could be in to that.”

My glare shot over my shoulder, sharp and precise. “I’m not a prize. I am a consequence.”

He laughed again, soft and amused. The sound should have grated on me, but I had to admit, it was just slightly satisfying to know he was amused by my ice. Some part of him recognized it for what it was—power hidden in elegance, danger cloaked in poise.

We stopped at the grand entrance. I could feel his gaze, predatory and calculating, trailing me, testing boundaries, measuring my reactions.

I deliberately made eye contact before stepping inside. A warning. A boundary. I do not bow. I do not submit. I am not a prize.

“You know,” he said, voice low, walking beside me now instead of behind, “I think you might be the first girl who’s actually fun to irritate.”

I didn’t respond immediately. I let him speak, let the words hang between us like a challenge. I didn’t need to tell him he was lucky I hadn’t already handed him a sharp remark he wouldn’t recover from.

Instead, I let my fingers trail lightly along the edge of the marble banister as we ascended the steps, letting him see the deliberate grace in every movement. “You’re amusing yourself, I suppose. But don’t mistake amusement for authority. That is a dangerous assumption, Mr. Sinclair.”

He smirked. That stupid, arrogant, too-perfect smirk that made me want to smack him and laugh at the same time. “Dangerous assumptions are my specialty.”

I let the silence stretch, enjoying the faint tightening of his jaw, the glint of mischief in his eyes. This is how it begins: the verbal fencing, the battle of dominance and wit, the teasing as a weapon. I let him think he has the first strike, let him believe he’s winning some invisible duel.

Inside, the manor smelled faintly of polished wood, old money, and something faintly floral that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be sweet or suffocating. Every detail—carpet, lighting, artwork—was meant to impress and intimidate. I made a mental note of every angle, every opportunity, every distraction. Nothing here would give him leverage. Not tonight.

He trailed behind me as I moved to the grand hall. I could hear the faint scrape of his shoes against the marble, could feel the low hum of his amusement vibrating through the space. I refused to look at him. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

“You’re good at this,” he said finally, quiet, voice just above a murmur. “Walking in like you own everything, like you’ve already won.”

I paused, shoulders squared, keeping my tone casual, almost bored. “I am good at this. It’s called preparation, Mr. Sinclair. I suggest you take notes.”

“Notes?” he whispered, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. “I think I’ll just watch. Learning from you will be far more… entertaining.”

I rolled my eyes delicately. “Entertaining, huh? Don’t let your amusement make you sloppy. Some of us take work seriously.”

“And some of us,” he murmured, voice low, teasing, dark, “take challenges personally.”

I froze for a fraction of a second, then let it pass, keeping the controlled calm I’d spent years perfecting. I didn’t rise to the bait. I let it hang there, dangerous and charged, because that is what sets me apart. That is what makes me untouchable.

I glanced at him briefly in the mirror as I moved further into the hall. His eyes glinted with mischief, amusement, and something I couldn’t yet name—something dangerous, primal, and intoxicating. And yes, I felt it too. But it didn’t matter. Not now. Not ever.

Tonight, I set the rules. Tonight, I decide how this game begins.

He may be arrogant, spoiled, and infuriating. But he doesn’t scare me.

Not yet.

I stepped fully into the manor, heels clicking against the marble, and with that sound, I let the battle lines settle. He follows, smirking. I’ll tolerate it. For now.

Because in San Monclair, power is everything—and I intend to remain the one holding it.