Traded To The Don

Chapter 5

Salvatore’s POV

The house was painted in pastel colors, pinks, purples, and other hues straight out of a doll factory. What the f**k? I nearly gave a loud snort, but I bit it back and maintained my usual expression of coldness. There were all kinds of cutesy little trinkets in the foyer, like flamingo vases, seeing them all. I could not help but get irritated. This wasn’t my kind of space. It was soft, delicate, and too damn... girly.

I stepped inside, my black shoes clicking against the polished floor, and caught a glimpse of her ahead. Athlea moved with this stiff elegance, trying way too hard to act like I wasn’t here, like she didn’t care. Her shoulders were straight, and her chin was held high, but I could see through it. Her body language was screaming louder than she probably thought.It's all false play.

An amateur indeed!

If circumstances were different, I mused, watching her walk, I’d break that icy front of hers. Easily.

The thought tugged at something primal in me. She was attractive, I’d give her that. But more than that, she had fire. And fire? That was fun to extinguish.

Now that would be real fun.

I glanced at the ridiculous decor again, lips curving into a smirk. “Didn’t your husband get a say in the decorating?” I asked, half amused and half to rile her up.

“No,” she snapped back,her face

deadpan.

Cold as ice.

She led me through to the dining room, all stiff movements and silent resentment. I followed leisurely, taking my time, glancing around her space as if it wasn’t beneath me. My eyes landed on her hand, and I noticed the absence of a ring. Interesting.

well that's exciting

“Where is he?” I asked, my voice casual. “Might want to be here for this conversation.”

She spun around, her expression twisting with irritation. “None of your damn business,” she spat. “Now, say your piece.”

I chuckled, low and deep, before leaning back in the chair. I crossed my ankle over my knee, taking up space like I owned the place, watching her with a lazy, calculating gaze. She was trying to rush me, to get me out of here. But I wasn’t leaving until I’d had my fun and fill, and ooh how much that rhymes to my craves.

Fun Indeed!

Pulling out a business card, I slid it across the table to her, slow, deliberate. Her fingers twitched as she picked it up, and I could practically feel the tension thickening in the air between us. The moment she read it, her pulse quickened. I could tell by the way her grip tightened around the card almost leaving imprints on it.

“Twice the market value,” I said smoothly. “That’s my offer.” Added teasingly

Her reaction was delicious—shock flickered in her eyes for just a second, before she slammed the walls back up. “No,” she said, her voice firm, defiant.

I blinked. Did she just… say no? My lips pressed into a thin line as I leaned forward, letting the weight of my stare settle on her. “No?” I repeated, voice soft but deadly calm. “Do you realize who you’re speaking to?” I said , letting out my Aura of a sovereign I groomed through the years.

She dares oppose my stance?

Hmph, I would prove the ways of a business tycoon and show how it's done.

She met my eyes, chin lifting in that same stubborn way. “Not a clue,” she said coolly. “Should I care?”

Bold.

The heat in my gut simmered. She had guts, I’d give her that. Most people would’ve folded by now. But her? She was trying to play tough, like she wasn’t sitting across from the devil himself. My fingers twitched, imagining them around her throat. Not to hurt her—no, not that. But to remind her who had the power in this room.

“Salvatore Thorne,” I said, watching the color drain from her face, her lips parting as the name sunk in.

Now she knows.

For a split second, I saw her mask c***k. The defiance wavered, but she wasn’t broken yet. Not fully. And I liked that. I liked that a lot.

I leaned back in my chair, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Let me ask again, lastochka.” My voice dropped, the Russian endearment slipping through like a warning. “I’m offering double the worth. You’re either stupid or⁠—”

“I can’t sell,” she cut in sharply, voice a bit unsteady now. “My father’s will prohibits it.”

Her hands gripped the chair in front of her, knuckles turning white. She looked away, like she was trying to hold on to whatever control she had left. Poor thing, trying so hard to resist.

I felt my anger rise. Clubs like mine were anything but “vile,” and I was ready to make her see that. My voice dropped lower, laced with a threat. “You’ve never had a decent f**k, have you? That’s why you’re so scared of your dad’s place?”

Her jaw clenched, and I watched the fire in her eyes flare up again, though her cheeks flushed a deeper red. She shoved her chair back violently, the screech of wood on marble slicing through the room.

“Get out,” she hissed, pointing toward the door, but her composure was slipping. Her whole body was tense, her breathing shallow. I’d rattled her good.

I stood up slowly, stepping closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head up to look at me. I leaned in, my breath brushing against her ear, and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself.”

Her body stiffened, a slight shiver running down her spine as she was caught in this. I caught the flicker of her eyes, darting down for just a second—just enough time to see where her gaze landed. She’s not as unaffected as she pretends.

I pulled back, smirking as I turned and walked towards the door, my steps calm, unhurried and steady. She was still standing there, frozen, watching me with a mix of fury and something she didn’t want to admit she had for me.

But unfortunately

It's written over that vixen face of hers

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.