| To Gauge A Wolf

𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀

VANESSA

About five years ago, the heat on my father and his activities was pretty intense. Until the Morellos moved in on what my dad called our territory. Then the heat got worse as the Morellos started wreaking havoc on the streets. I wasn't exactly sure what they did, but by the way, my dad and brothers always cursed whenever the subject of the Morellos came up, I'd say it was pretty bad shit.

Still scrolling down James' page, I decided there wasn't much else to see or to stalk. So, I went back to my page, contemplating whether I should remove James Gunner as a follower. He was probably using it to keep tabs on me, watching me, waiting for me to slip up so he could get what he wanted—incriminating shit on my family. Plus, now he knew ninety per cent of my status updates were bullshit anyway. What if he called me out on it?

While I stared at the screen, a notification popped up saying James Gunner commented on your post.

Shit, shit, shit.

I slid my finger across the screen and read his comment on my check-in at the Skin Spa in New York.

Was it worth it?

What the hell did that even mean? I knew I shouldn't, and I hardly ever replied to comments, but I couldn't help myself.

Quickly I typed, Was what worth it?

About three minutes went by before another notification popped up.

The twenty-five-minute treatment.

I knew he was talking about the twenty-five minutes I was stuck down in that damn interrogation room with him. The urge to reply to his last comment was so overwhelming, and my fingers started to burn with the need to type a snotty reply… something like fuck you! But I didn't. Instead, I opened my messenger app and started typing a message to the fucking man.

 

Vanessa: I don't know what you're trying to do, but I would appreciate it if you didn't put my public image in jeopardy. Vanessa.

 

First, why the fuck was I doing this? Why was I even dignifying this asshole's lame attempt at contact by giving him exactly what he wanted... contact?

And second, why the hell did I put my name in the end? This was F******k Messenger, not a damn text message. Besides, something told me if it was a text message, Detective Gunner would know it was from me. He probably had my phone number memorized.

There was a soft sound of bubbles popping, and I looked down, staring at the little text bubble appearing just below my message. James is typing a message, and I am struggling to breathe. Seriously.

And in popped his message.

James: I'm not trying to do anything. You're putting your public image in jeopardy yourself by lying about your whereabouts.

 

My fingers flew over the screen quicker than you could say "arrogant son of a bitch."

 

Vanessa: I'm giving all my followers what they want.

 

James: And what's that?

 

Vanessa: A glimpse into the life of someone they see as nothing more than a rich princess with not a care in the world while she lives the high life. I'm letting them experience it all, if only for a few damn seconds while they read that post and admire the picture.

 

I was angry, and I was annoyed. How dare he think he had me all figured out, when, in fact, he had no goddamned clue?

Another text bubble appeared, and when the message came up on the screen, I had to read it twice.

 

James: I know you're much more than just a rich princess.

 

He was playing the nice guy card, pretending he understood all my fucking problems. Unfortunately for him, I was smarter than that.

 

Vanessa: Well, thanks, Dr Phil. Now leave me alone.

 

The text bubble appeared again, but then it was gone. Appeared again, and then gone again. I watched for about five minutes as he started and stopped, a message never showing up. Until finally…

 

What if I don't want to, princess?

 

An image of his dark eyes slid into my mind. The way it felt having him so close to me, almost pinning me against the door, his warm breath wafting over my already burning cheeks. No use denying it. That man hit all the right buttons, playing every sensual impulse inside me like a fucking fiddle. And I wasn't even sure he was doing it on purpose. I thought for a man like him, it came naturally. Lust and sex just bled out of him, infecting you with the most intense carnal desires like a damn virus. And it kept on spreading through every vein, every bone until you ended up craving him more than any other type of drug.

Jesus! I was clenching my thighs. I was clenching my fucking thighs, and he wasn't even anywhere near me.

With sweaty palms, I started typing.

 

Vanessa: You don't have a choice. Have a nice day, Detective.

 

I didn't hear from him again after that.

The drive home was quiet, and I was wondering how I was going to get through the next few weeks. I arrived home two days ago, and I already felt like I was suffocating just by having the Valenti last name. No matter how long I stayed away, how long I waited before I came back home, the people here never forgot. They always recognized me, especially when I was out with my two brothers hovering over me like guard dogs.

Italian men and the women in their lives. You could always count on an Italian man to be extremely overprotective.

My brother Daniel, who was turning twenty-four tomorrow, was too busy chasing after tits and ass. Not that he needed to chase it; it somehow followed him wherever he went. It was like he was a magnet for everything that had an abundance of estrogen. The problem was, that his dick didn't know how to say no.

But Antonio, my oldest brother, was most like my dad. He was all business and no play. When it came to the family and running the business smoothly, he was a perfectionist. He was what they called the underboss, the son who would take over my father's empire and run it exactly the way he was taught. Antonio was darker, harder than Daniel, and more focused.

I worried about Antonio sometimes. He was twenty-eight, and I knew for a fact he hadn't been out there enjoying life as much as he should. He had to grow up much sooner than the rest of us, and I was afraid he was going to wake up one day and realize he'd been living someone else's life, not his own.

That was the reality for all three of us Bologna children. We'd always live in the shadow of our father—the Black Wolf.

I looked down at my phone with James' face still on the screen. Why did I have the feeling that not only did I have the black Wolf to worry about, but also that damn detective?