Chapter 4

Misha

A bloody three-story Italian-style mansion with a large, grand exterior and a garden path leading to the main door and a fountain. I enter the code, and the iron gates swing open. Because there are no securities, it's either not his place of business or I'm walking into a trap, which would be the biggest mistake of my life. I wasn't expecting this; to put it mildly, it's too bright, too warm, and too open and free for me. As I climbed the steps to the porch and rang the bell, my senses were on high alert.

A woman in a blue servant's uniform opens the large Mongolian wood door with a warm smile. Funny fancy italian folks.

"I've come to...

"Miss Morris, Mr. Alveraz is waiting for you." She paved the way for me. Now this is creepy.

However, I hear voices, an laughing and a familiar voice. As I moved out of the marble entrance hall to the side where the voice was coming from, I narrowed my eyes, and there he was. In the living room, which was littered with boxes of pizza, Jack Morris was laughing and playing video games with some guy. He had a few bruises on his face, as well as some cut lips, as seen in the photo, but he appears to be fine.

I'm not sure which struck me more: that he was laughing with enemies or that they were holding their hostage in this manner.

I wouldn't have minded if someone had locked him in an abandoned cold warehouse and punched him in the face a few more times.

"Jack,"

As he recognised my voice, the remote control slipped from his grasp.

"Mish!" He stumbled to his feet, straightened up, and faced the man behind him. who was at least eight years older than him.

"You said he wasn't going to call her here!" He hissed at him, then turned to face me, his hazel eyes wide, nervously licking his lips and running his hand through his short blond hair.

"Relax," the man behind him says, "she's got other things to worry about."

"Oh, do I?" I raised an eyebrow and asked, "Who are you?"

"Signoiria, Omar Alvarez," He had the same dark red hair and smile, but more boyish features.

"If I see one more Italian guy today, I am going punch him in the face."

"That would be me."

I turn to face my problem; he was casually dressed in a black t-shirt with full sleeves; his green eyes twinkled; and he had the half-crooked smile.

I drew a hard line with my lips because I don't have time for him to look as good as he did two days ago.

Then I got that stupid feeling in my stomach.

"You're a difficult woman to find, Miss Morris."

"Oh, she doesn't like that; she is not-"

I turn to face Jack, who stumbled back to his seat, clearing his throat. I return my gaze to Alveraz.

"He's afraid of you," he said.

I heard footsteps and turned around to see Omar dragging Jack away.

"Sit back down, or I'll rearrange both of your features," I warned.

Omar chuckled and turned to face—I'm guessing—Alveraz.

"I like her, brother," He says.

"Good for you, but I don't like to be ignored,"

I smile and return his gaze; there he was, the devil dancing behind the most beautiful green eyes to bless any man. He did well in trying to improve the situation, but it was what it was: a hostage situation.

"I hate being duped, but here we are."

"Here we are," he smirked, his gaze passing over me.

"Remove him."

"No," I said unequivocally.

"Excuse me?" He cocked his brow.

"You are excused,"

Omar snorted, Jack laughed, and he coughed to cover it up.

"I know this is a hostage situation, no matter if you like to wrap it up in extra cheese pizza boxes,"

"Look, Mish, I think we should..."

"So, state your terms so that we can go our separate ways."

"I will state my terms on my terms." He approached me without breaking our gaze.

"You two leave." He raised his hand before I could object. Then he turn, heading for the staircase and I had no choice but to follow him, third door to the left and he opened another door. It was a study with a fire place, shelfs, a desk and cushion chair, A painting of a black panther behind it. He closed the door the moment we were there and He pushed me up against a wall. I kept my cool as the current passed through me and knocked my breath out of my lungs. My senses are being overwhelmed by the musky, metallic scent.

"Now if you're that smart," he said, his thump dangerously tracing my cheekbones, and all I can think about is urging him to press a little closer to me: "No one speaks to me like that and walks out alive."

As I felt throbbing in all of my pulses, I made sure my breathing was even and calm.

"Ow," I grinned, "is that about your $5,000 tux?" I joked.

"I like it," he scoffed. He nodded and took a step back, "deflecting and rattling me at the same time."

I take deep breaths in and out as he walks away from me to the open bar.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Milkshake," I replied, and he turned to raise an eyebrow.

"What?  I like milkshakes, either mango or strawberry," I say as he pulls out his phone and shakes his head. Ah, I think I like to rattle him, and he likes to play before he hits the target, but I guess I'm stuck with him.

He put his phone away.

"First business, then pleasure."

"Be quick about it." I sat down and rolled my eyes.

"Well, I did prepare an entire pitch," He says. "If the lady insists on being quick," he said as he poured himself a drink and sat across from me, a challenge in his eyes.

"The lady insist," I have a feeling I won't like it, so what could go wrong?

"Marry me,"