If you haven't read the other installments in the series that have been released so far:
To Have (The Billionaire’s Vow, #1)
To Hold (The Billionaire’s Vow, #2)
For Better (The Billionaire’s Vow, #3)
Then proceed with caution...spoilers ahead!
For Worse (The Billionaire's Vow, #4)
Copyright © 2019 Ava Claire
CHAPTER ONE
“Well, clearly I’m coming too.”
I blinked, almost forgetting there was anyone else in the world besides the giant of a man who looked ready, willing, and able to crush my bones to make his bread. But the voice that cut through my horrified stupor was too high, too feisty to belong to the glowering man who was standing a few feet from me.
Daring me to say no to his demands.
Mr. Esposito would like to see you.
If the statement involved anyone else, it would have been a request.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, eyes shifting from Megan to Vincent. Turned out they were both daring me to say no. A ‘no’ would give them the opportunity to escalate. Vincent, who looked out of place among the crystal chandelier, white tablecloths and gowns. Decked out in a black tee that choked his massive muscles and jeans that would have resulted in anyone else being denied entry. Megan, who looked ready to step in the ring, moments away from snatching off her hoop earrings.
‘No’ wasn’t an option for either of them so I took a swig of water, ignored the boulder that was firmly planted in my gut, and put on the bravest face I could manage. “Lead the way.”
The corners of Vincent’s mouth tilted downward into a scowl when Megan perked to her feet, ready to make good on her statement. “Red’s not invited.”
“‘Red’ doesn’t need an invitation,” Megan answered, not even flinching. Glaring right back at him like she ate men like Vincent for breakfast. He didn’t budge, clearly not a fan of this course of action, but my best friend made it crystal clear that it wasn’t up for debate. “I’m sure you have better things to do than stand there and stare at me—Vincent, wasn’t it?”
For the briefest moment, the bulldozer sized man was replaced by his younger self. I saw a gangly, awkward, wayward kid—and wayward kids were Megan’s specialty.
His dark eyes bulged, heat unfurling in his cheeks before he locked it down and turned on his heels, marching back in the direction of the kitchen. “This way.”
I wanted a minute to gather myself, to have a silent conversation with my friend where I, she, or both of us had the good sense to say ‘eff this’ and booked it out of the restaurant…because anyone with good sense would avoid all things Esposito. But Megan was hot on his trail, practically leaving me in the dust. She had that fire, that bring-it-on fury of someone who didn’t know that monsters truly existed. That in real life, the bullets weren’t made of rubber and the bad guys truly didn’t care if you lived or died. In fact they were kinda rooting for the latter.
I steeled my spine and got the lead out. This freight train was going in one direction and backwards was not one of the choices.
Forward.
Or off the rails…
If I had any doubt of Esposito’s clout, I was cured of it when we marched right past signage that read ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’—and no employee dared to even look in our direction. In fact, like dominoes falling, every person was struck by lightning when we entered the room. Their faces morphed from gleeful, tired, and focused to ashen, terrified, and obedient. Servers parted like the Red Sea, one poor young woman turning the same color as the pasta sauce on the plate she held, then almost dropping said plate when Vincent scowled in her direction.
It was unfortunate I could barely appreciate the behind-the-scenes look at the restaurant because all the bits and pieces that made up the well-oiled machine was something to behold, something some diners even paid extra to experience. There was a single, white clothed table with a bird’s eye view of the entire kitchen, where the discerning customer unencumbered by budgets could see just how the sausage was made.
I paused, catching sight of a single diner at said table, wondering if they realized they wouldn’t get the average experience at the ‘chef’s table’ tonight. In fact, if I had any choice in the matter, I’d be making my way to the-
Oh my god.
The suit clad man at the table pivoted towards us, slowly rising to his feet. He looked right past Vincent and Megan, meeting my gaze with an intensity that would have made me gulp, if my mouth wasn’t suddenly as dry as the Sahara desert.
Even if I hadn’t done my homework after Rachel Laraby told me who she was dating, I would have instantly known that Marco Esposito was a man of authority. Like Jacob, the air was different around him. It was a charged, electric thing that both drew you closer and kept you at a distance. Like my husband, Marco kept his dark locks cropped, sharpening his angles to a blade’s edge. But unlike my husband, whose eyes were the color of the ocean and just as inviting (when he wanted them to be), there was nothing remotely warm about Marco’s gaze. His eyes were the color of midnight.
The color of the abyss.
~
