Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,56
intensity that was off-putting. With those laser-focused blue eyes, he looked like the T-1000 Terminator.
Aida has brought out a better side of him. Given him a little humor and charm. I don’t doubt he’ll become mayor, or whatever he sets his sights on after that.
I’d fucking hate it. The older I get, the less I like talking to people at all.
Still, it’s interesting to see how the crowd responds to him, screaming and cheering as soon as he sets foot on stage. A whole lot of them seem to know Aida, too—they roar when she blows a kiss to the crowd. Seb told me the pair of them have some Instagram account that’s gotten popular. I really am old—I don’t even have Facebook, let alone Instagram.
The mayor follows them out onto stage a minute later. He’s not a tall man, but he has presence. He’s got white hair, bald on top and too long on the sides, rimless glasses perched on a beak of a nose, and a big smile full of crooked teeth. Even though he’s only 5’7, his impressive belly helps give him a sense of dignity. He waves to the crowd with both hands, his pudgy fingers reminding me of cartoon gloves.
Mayor Williams is as crooked as they come, but in a genial kind of way. He’s always been willing to do business with the Irish and Italian mafia families, or anyone else who wants to keep the city running with bribes, favors, and exchanges.
Having him in place has been a good thing. Having Cal as mayor would be even better. What we don’t want is some crusader or the head of a rival family.
As I’m thinking who might run against Cal, Yafeu Solomon climbs the steps to the stage. I look up at him from my position in front of the barricades.
He looks almost exactly the same as when I saw him last—tall, slim, wearing a well-tailored dark suit. His face is just as regal as ever, with no new lines that I can see. Only the little threads of silver in his black hair show that any time has passed at all.
He’s not looking down at me. He’s gazing out over the large crowd with a satisfied expression on his face. It’s an excellent turn out—a credit to his cause.
For a moment I assume the woman walking behind him is his wife. Then he steps to the side of her and I see her face in full. And I realize it’s Simone.
I’m frozen in place, staring up at her.
I’d prepared myself to see her father. I never imagined for a second that Simone would be with him.
I’ve tortured myself with glimpses of her in Ibiza, Paris, London, Miami . . . shots taken by paparazzi, or on red carpets. As far as I know, she’s never come back to Chicago. I never thought she would.
Now she’s standing thirty feet away from me. If she were to look down, she’d see me. But she isn’t looking at the crowd at all. She’s taken her seat at the very corner of the stage and she’s staring down at her hands, obviously not liking the attention.
I can’t fucking believe it. I can’t take my eyes off her.
The mayor is getting up to make the first speech. I’m supposed to be scanning the crowd, checking in with the guards, making sure he’s protected from all angles.
I’m doing none of it. I’m riveted by the sight of Simone.
Fucking hell, she’s twice as beautiful as before. She’s got to be the only supermodel in the world where her photos don’t do her justice.
We were just kids when we met. She was lovely then, but barely an adult.
Now she’s a woman in the fullest sense of the word. She’s everything a woman should be—soft, yet strong. Slim, yet curvy. Feminine and powerful. So powerful that I can’t tear my eyes off her face. They’re pulled back magnetically to Simone’s eyes, her lips, her skin, her slender neck and her full breasts, her long legs crossed in front of her at the ankle, and her slim hands folded in her lap.
There’s a new depth of emotion in her expression. Like her eyes contain an entire novel, if I only knew how to read them.
The mayor has given his whole speech and I haven’t looked away from her once. She hasn’t raised her eyes to look at me.
I can’t believe we’re this close and she doesn’t even feel it.