Traded To The Don

Chapter 3

I was sprawled out on the couch, legs kicked up, feeling that soft lavender smell float through the room from the diffuser. The evening sun dipped low in the horizon, casting a warm glow through the curtain's seams. Everything about this little setup screamed cozy and comfy, but I wasn’t exactly focused on that right now. Nope. My eyes were glued to my tablet, flipping through pages of this wild Salvatorece novel where some six-foot-five NFL beast was taking charge of things. And let me tell you, I was living for it.

Living It is…

Hell, this ain’t like my dad’s sleazy club, I thought, biting my lip. Nah, this is some fantasy-level s**t.

The more I read, the hotter I felt, and it wasn’t just from the sun scorch alone. My skin started to tingle, my breath hitched at every filthy little detail I crossed. Dude in the book growled "good girl" in this low, deep voice, and my cheeks flamed up like I was right there in that damn scene, seeing it all happen. I shifted, thighs pressing together like it’d help cool me down or something, but nope. My body was on fire, my head buzzing with thoughts that definitely weren’t PG.

Damn, this is hot.

I said trying to curl the heat in me

I shifted again, biting the inside of my cheek, feeling the heat creeping lower. The lead guy was about to throw down in a threesome, and I could barely keep up with the words fast enough. My fingers hovered over the screen, ready to swipe again, but suddenly—

BANG, BANG, BANG!

The loud knock at the door ripped me out of the moment so fast I nearly flung my tablet across the room. "What the f—" I hissed, yanking my hand out from where it didn’t need to be.

I sat up, glaring at the door like it personally offended me. My body was still buzzing, every nerve on edge, and whoever was outside had just shattered the vibe. Great. Freaking fantastic.

Who the hell’s banging on my door like they’re the damn cops?

With an annoyed sigh, I stormed over, yanking it open, ready to give whoever it was a piece of my mind for the take. But the second I laid my eyes on who, the words dried up in my throat, probably not coming out anytime soon.

Salvatore.

Tall as hell, broad shoulders filling the doorway, and that expensive perfume smell hit me first. Strong, masculine, and kinda intoxicating if I’m honest. His dark wavy hair was slicked back, aviators pushed up on his head like he was straight out of some mafia flick. My eyes trailed down to his navy suit, perfectly tailored to show off every damn muscle. And his hands—God, those hands. The veins on them had my brain going places it probably shouldn’t.

Fuck, why did he have to show up now?

He flashed me this cocky grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me. "Can I help you?" he asked, his thick Russian accent rumbling out like a goddamn earthquake threatening to ruin my ears.

I blinked, trying to pull myself together, but my body wasn’t taking the hints and refused to abide. My disgust fought with this sudden, very uncomfortable attraction. Crossing my arms, I raised my chin, trying to act like I wasn’t just fantasizing about getting pinned up against a wall a while ago.

"Can I help you?" I snapped back, my voice harsher than I intended, but whatever. I wasn’t about to let him know how rattled I was on the inside, was I?

He straightened up, towering even more now his shadow entwined with mine, like he owned the space. "Athlea, right?" he asked, stepping forward and holding out his hand to me.

I stared at it for a second, then reluctantly shook it. His hand was huge, firm, and the second our skin touched, it felt like a spark ran straight up my arm up to my brain. I almost jerked back, but held it together not wanting to look weak. What the hell was that?

"Sparks, seriously? Get a grip, Athlea, I thought, mentally cursing myself.

He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and just didn’t care. "I need to talk to you about your father’s club," he said, dropping the bomb like it was nothing of a big deal.

And just like that, all that heat, all those stupid fantasies went out the window. My stomach twisted, and my mood took a nosedive. Dad’s club? Seriously? I do not need this s**t right now.

"Come in," I muttered, stepping aside and waving him in, though I’d rather be anywhere but dealing with this. He strode past me, his perfume lingering in the air as he brushed just close enough to make me even more flustered.

As he stepped into the living room, he paused, turning back to me with a nod. "I’ll follow you. Your place, after all."

There was something in the way he said it—like he knew who was really in charge, but wasn’t about to give up any of his own power, his pride? He was in my house, but he still carried himself like he was running the show, and it almost seemed like he owned it.

I led him toward the couch, acutely aware of his eyes on me. He was watching, definitely checking me out, just like I’d been mentally undressing him two minutes ago. Damn it, focus, Athlea. Business first, fantasies later.

But deep down, a little voice whispered in, This one could totally bend me over and pull my hair.

I shoved the thought away and sank into the couch, eyes narrowing at him. "So, what’s this about the club?"

Salvatore stayed standing, hands in his pockets, that same damn grin tugging at his lips. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to punch him or… well, do something else entirely. Either way, this conversation was about to be way more complicated and ever awkward than I ever thought.

And I wasn’t sure if I hated that.