Chapter 5 Just Kiss Me Back

Jaxx's Point Of View

The scotch sat untouched in front of me. I wasn't here to drink. Not really. I was here to get some quiet, take this call, and get things done, the way I always did. Fast. Clean. No excuses.

The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey, polished leather, and the sharp tension of decisions that could end empires or build new ones.

I leaned back on the velvet booth, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tapping against the smooth glass of my drink. The phone was pinned to my ear, my tone razor-sharp.

"No. I don't care if it's the minister himself blocking the deal. Either you get it signed or consider your contract with us terminated. I'm not in the business of delays."

The man on the other end stammered. "Boss, please, I..."

"Don't 'boss' me. I'm not running a charity."

My voice was hard as steel. "It's either you close the deal tonight, or consider yourself out. I don't pay for delays. I don't fund incompetence."

"Boss, please. Just a few hours more..."

"I said no." My jaw tightened. "Get it done, or find another line of work."

I didn't wait for a reply. I was about to hang up when the door creaked open. Footsteps. Clicks of heels on dark marble. Slow. Unhurried.

I didn't look up immediately. People came and went in this private lounge, but everyone knew the far-right booth... my booth was off limits.

Then... she sat. Directly across from me.

I looked up, already annoyed, ready to snap. Her face was obscured, curtain of dark, lush waves cascading over one eye. She was wrapped in a figure-hugging dress, crimson and elegant, yet there was nothing demure about her. She didn't even look at me.

She raised a hand, and the bartender approached. "One bottle of Macallan. Neat."

Not a question. A command.

Interesting. "Ma'am, are you sure? That bottle costs..." Her head turned slightly, and the bartender shut up instantly. "Bring it," she said coolly.

I narrowed my eyes.

"...Boss? Boss?! Hello? Can you hear me?"

I pulled the phone away from my ear, ended the call with a hard press, and placed it face-down on the table.

I cleared my throat.

"You're in my booth."

Still, she didn't speak. She poured herself a generous amount of whiskey and downed it, in one go. Then another.

"Lady..." I started, irritation flickering in my voice. "I don't know if you stumbled in by mistake or you're just suicidal, but this section is private."

She tilted her chin, finally meeting my gaze.

And time... stopped.

I froze.

No, it wasn't her beauty. Though damn, she was beautiful. Like a storm trapped in silk. Her eyes weren't just eyes, they were thunderclouds threatening to pour. Her lips were curved, but not in a smile, more like a challenge. And her dress... it clung to her like a second skin, the neckline dipping just low enough to make a man's thoughts derail.

But none of that was why my pulse kicked into overdrive. It was who she was. My voice caught in my throat. Her. Elena. My brother's wife.

The ghost I'd seen in photos, the name I'd heard muttered during family meetings, the woman in the tabloids who always looked too polished to be real.

But also, she was more than that.

I watched as she kept drinking. Glass after glass. And I just sat there, watching her, like I was under some damn spell I couldn't break free from.

The way her fingers wrapped around the shot glass, delicate but firm. The way her throat worked as she tipped her head back. The faint shimmer of sweat on her collarbone under the low light. Her dress, a deep crimson, shimmered like blood under moonlight. The kind of dress that shouldn't be legal in public, let alone in this hole-in-the-wall private bar I owned but barely used.

By the tenth glass, I'd had enough.

I reached out and snatched the glass from her hand, just as she was about to tip it back. She blinked up, her gaze sluggish but not entirely lost. There was steel in her even in the haze.

"If you want to get wasted," I said, swirling the remaining whiskey before placing the glass far out of her reach, "not here. I don't house drunkards."

That did it.

She finally looked up... really looked up at me.

And the fire in those stormy eyes could've burned the goddamn place down. "And who," she said, her words slightly slurred but sharp-edged, "are you to tell me that?"

"I own this place," I replied coolly, leaning back in my seat. "Every glass, every stool, every bottle behind that bar, mine. So, yeah, I get to say who drinks and who doesn't."

She narrowed her eyes and lunged for the glass, but I caught her wrist mid-air and held it, not hard, just enough to make her pause.

Her fingers trembled in my grasp, and her breath hitched slightly, not from fear, but recognition.

"I know you," she whispered, eyes narrowing. "Oh really?" I tilted my head, releasing her wrist slowly, curiosity piqued. "You do?"

She blinked again, and I saw the realization spread across her face like ink in water. It began in her eyes, a flicker of memory, then tightened her jaw, flared her nostrils.

Hatred. Pure, raw, hot. "It's you," she said, almost to herself. Then louder, with venom, "That asshole."

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. I leaned in, resting my elbows on the table, grinning like a devil who just found his favorite sin.

"Hey, Bambina," I drawled. "Still keep that name for me, huh?" Her face flushed red with fury, not embarrassment.

She lunged.

"Scumbag!" she hissed, pushing hard against my chest. "After making my life hell, you disappeared?! Just like that?!"

I let her push me. I didn't flinch. Her palms hit my chest again, and again, as I simply sat there with that smug, crooked grin.

"Seems like you missed me," I said, voice low, amused.

"Miss you?" she spat. "I want to kill you. Watch you die slowly and painfully."

"Well damn," I murmured, voice dipping an octave as I leaned forward, "you always did have a thing for drama. But if you want me tied up and moaning in pain, Bambina, all you had to do was ask nicely."

Her fist struck my chest... hard.

I chuckled. She hated it. I could see it in her eyes, how badly she wanted to claw my smirk off my face.

"I hate you," she growled.

I reached up, brushing a lock of hair from her face, my touch featherlight but loaded with meaning.

"It's mutual, Bambina."

The door behind us creaked open. I stiffened. Not now. I turned, half growling, "Who the hell..?" But before I could even get a full look... She gasped.

And then... She kissed me.

Her lips crashed against mine like a fucking hurricane. Hot. Desperate. Full of defiance and something broken underneath. The kind of kiss that silences time itself.

I froze. Completely. She tasted like fire and whiskey and heartbreak. And something inside me... something I thought was dead, jolted to life.

Her hands gripped my shirt like she was holding on to the edge of a cliff. Like I was her last mistake and she needed to make it again.

"Don't ask questions," she whispered against my mouth. "Just... kiss me back."