Devil’s Thirst: A Mafia Stalker Romance (The Moretti Men Book 1)

Intrigue had me sneaking back into the theater tonight, but frustration spurred me to wait for Amelie in the dressing room. I couldn’t believe she’d stay for one of her private dance sessions when she knew it was dangerous. Doesn’t she have any sense of self-preservation? If she knew anyone off the street could come in after her, why would she risk dancing alone in the empty theater?

I was so damn pissed that I decided to show her how easy it would be for someone to corner her in a hopeless situation. It’s not a pretty lesson, but one she needs to learn. Some seriously sick fucks exist in this world, and she’d make a perfect target.

She got a taste of the dangers out there, though she didn’t respond as I expected. I have to start expecting the unexpected where she’s concerned, or I’ll be constantly off-balance.

I was fully prepared to witness her cower and beg. Not my tiny dancer. She wielded a fucking curling iron and growled like she was half feral. Fuck if it didn’t get me hard—something I would be ashamed to admit if I gave a fuck what anyone else thought.

Green eyes spitting fire. Lip snarling. Muscles coiled and ready for a fight.

So fucking majestic, I could hardly look away.

Ferocity was the last thing I expected from her. The response didn’t align with the woman I’d come to know over the past two weeks. Of course, people can have odd reactions to fear. Hers wasn’t out of the realm of reasonable possibilities, yet a niggling feeling in the back of my mind insists that something is off about the situation.

I don’t ever ignore my intuition—not anymore—which means I’ll be watching Amelie even more closely. See if I can read what’s written between the lines.

I huff out a wry breath at the absurdity of my thoughts.

If I study Amelie any closer, I’ll earn a fucking PhD. As if I needed another reason to justify my growing fixation. I can admit it. Hiding from the truth won’t help anyone. I’m obsessed with Amelie Brooks, and I don’t care who knows it.

I let the truth wash over me as I spot the woman herself leaving the theater. She’s put on joggers and a jacket over her dance gear and heads straight for a car that stops at the curb. It’s a paid ride. Not as safe as having a friend pick her up, but not as bad as walking home alone. I’ll be following her either way, so I suppose her choice of driver is irrelevant. I’d do it myself if I thought she’d get in the car with me.

The only way I see that happening is if, by some chance, she recognizes me. And even then, it would be a crapshoot. Better to let things play out the way I’ve planned. I’ll stick to the shadows for now, but when I finally orchestrate our official reunion, I’m confident she’ll believe she’s meeting me for the first time.

I’ve envisioned the interaction over and over for days now. Years, if I’m honest.

Urgency claws under my skin to reach that anticipated moment, but I refuse to let it rush me. Amelie is enough of an unknown variable that I don’t need to throw any others into the mix. I want this to unfold exactly to my specifications. I’m not leaving anything to chance if I can help it.

Aside from picking up Tommy at the airport yesterday, I made arrangements to secure the apartment next door to hers. That was a cornerstone of my plan and relied heavily on my persuasive abilities. Now that it’s done, the rest will be a chess match—a matter of one calculated move after another.

With my plans for Amelie in play, my family is the next problem I have to tackle. If I’m sticking around, I need to let them know I’ve come home. The longer I wait, the more cumbersome the task feels, but I keep putting it off anyway. I’ve been telling myself that my stay here might be temporary, so telling them would be pointless.

The truth is, my visit would only be brief if I grew bored of Amelie. The chances of that happening are so minuscule that it’s laughable. Will that kick me into action? Nope.

Right now, my focus is on Amelie, and I’m happy to keep it that way. My family has done fine without me over the past four years. A few more days will hardly make a difference.