I hated his arrogance, his rudeness, and the mocking way he called me mia cara. I hated the way my pulse kicked at the rough span of his hand around my neck. And I hated how he always seemed larger than life, like the molecules of any space he entered had to fold in on themselves to accommodate him. Are. We. Clear? His maddening voice echoed in my head. It was clear, all right. It was clear Dante Russo was Satan in a nice suit.
