“You're an animal, Anton. That's why you're in this cage. I'm a professional. I'm a free woman. I don't think you're ready to tell me any story at all today. This is all just a big joke to you. Guess I can't blame you – prison gets boring, right?” I slapped my notepad shut and stood, pushing in the chair.
His eyes widened. He looked...surprised, as if he couldn't believe I was the one ending this crap instead of letting him screw with me a second longer.
“You gotta be shitting me, babe. You're giving up now? Just when I was ready to get to the good stuff?”
“Start talking,” I hissed into the phone.
The metal felt like it was scalding hot against my ear. But it was just my own blood, heated to boiling point, all the fear and nasty heat he sparked beneath my skin.
“Okay. I'm not as hard as my gramps. I'll tell you that much. Prison's rough. You're right – it's boring as all fuck. My old man brought us over here when we were just kids. Guess me and my brothers have been in the US of A too long to be as cold as our Siberian forefathers. You wanna hear about my regrets? Just one.” He held up a pointer finger.
I waited. Fighting off another round of shaking knees, I slid back into my seat, pressing the phone so tight to my ear I thought I'd leave a permanent imprint there.
“I'm listening. What is it?”
“I regret ever responding to that fucking note in the pretty pink envelope. You're young and beautiful, Sabrina. You ought to be writing about fashion and eccentric artists. Shit, maybe slipping on some pretty lingerie and posing for the magazines for some side cash. Not spending a bright autumn day chasing down monsters in this fucking place. Go home.”
I stopped, stared, and felt my nostrils flare. Before I could say anything, he slammed his phone into the wall and shuffled up. He never looked back once as he walked to the door, slow and steady, moving like a stuffed orange tiger who'd just had a good meal.
You can guess who. Ugh.
He never looked back, not even when I smashed my phone down and ran a trembling hand across my face. I had to fight every urge to pick the phone up and begin smashing it to bits against the wall.
This asshole frustrated me in all the wrong ways – mentally, physically, sexually. Admitting that last one made me want to try to break through that glass slab myself so I could follow and strangle him.
No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. God damn.
I'd lost my story and my pride in one blow. I certainly wasn't going to write about how I'd just gotten completely owned by the twisted asshole who'd demolished my Uncle's best bar and lounge to become the biggest terrorist in Chicago's recent history.
I spun, flustered, fighting down the lump in my throat. Charlie the Warden was already standing there with the door open, an apologetic look on his face. I didn't care about making a scene. I hurled the unused notepad into the little waste bin on my way out, stomping past him so quickly I didn't care about the dark, cruel eyes in the dingy cells ogling me as I marched to the exit.
I sat in the Silver Pear downtown, enjoying my second martini on the house. Free drinks at the family's bars were the only perks I allowed myself for being a Ligiotti girl – not counting the fat trust fund dear old dad left me before he ODed one cold winter night half a decade ago.
I was his legacy. I wanted to make him proud, and Uncle Gioulio too. The interview was supposed to do that, and I'd fucking blown it.
The glory would have to wait while I licked my wounds and regrouped. Right now, all I was concerned about was dousing my belly in as much alcohol as I could get without falling off my chair.
My heels rubbed together, close to starting a fire beneath the leather booth, but it wasn't half as hot as the ridiculous furnace beating in my belly. I dreaded the call from Richard the blogger. Just dreaded it.
Not only would I have to tactfully admit I'd bombed the one story good enough to get me an in with his wildly popular blog, but I knew I'd feel the failure all over again. I couldn't just swallow the humiliation and move on.
Nobody treated me like Anton did – nobody! Sure, growing up a second generation crime princess made me as entitled as they come. But Anton Ivankov had knocked me to the floor as a journalist and wiped his feet on me.
Shallow, angry sips slid down my throat. I wished I'd ordered something stronger. If I wanted to be brutally honest – and I did – the bastard stirred up more than humiliation.
The coarse, filthy way he'd talked was burned into my head, like he'd pulsed those words against my skin with his rough lips. He was masculine power personified, stuffed into a bright orange jumpsuit. I couldn't remember the last man who'd really made me ache, pulsed a sultry tension through my core, folding everything inward.
Probably because there wasn't one. Anton had done the unthinkable, and it was just my luck that he was the one man on planet earth who was totally off limits.