Page 64 of Mafia Mistress

Imelda paused, uncertain. Refusing the food was a serious insult, but I would not have Francesca upset, thinking we are eating one of the baby lambs she visited every day. “Va bene,” I said. “Just bring something else.”

“There is only soup, Signore Ravazzani,” she said.

“Sí, va bene, capisco.” I told her I understood and she removed the lamb, shaking her head on the way back to the kitchen.

Silence descended but I focused on my food. No doubt Giulio and Zia thought I had lost my mind.

“Grazie, Fausto,” Francesca said, her voice shaky but I heard the relief. She dabbed at the corner of her eye with her napkin. She had a big heart,this girl.

“I cannot save them all, dolcezza. But I can prevent them from appearing on our dinner table.”

She bit her lip but nodded, and I wanted to...I don’t know. Kiss her and touch her, bring a smile back to that gorgeous face. Then I wanted to hold her down and fuck her, while I spanked her ass until she cried. I gave myself a mental shake. These were hardly appropriate thoughts for dinner.

Zia couldn’t resist commenting. “Sto vendendo cose che non avrei mai pensato di vedere in vita mia.”

I am seeing things that I never thought I’d see in my lifetime.

“Basta,” I told her sternly.

“What did she say?” Francesca asked, glancing between all three of us.

Giulio opened his mouth to answer, so I shot him a glare. He held up his hands but I could see the amusement dancing in his eyes. My family was a pain in the ass.

“I really need to improve my Italian,” Francesca said as she took the platter of artichokes from Zia.

Part of me liked the idea of having her helpless and dependent on me to understand the language. But the practical side longed to hear my country’s words coming out of that beautiful mouth. “I can hire someone to help you learn.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course.”

Francesca didn’t realize her face showed her every thought. To me, she was transparent, an open book. I recognized the sly satisfaction she was now feeling, no doubt believing that learning Italian would help her escape. Except there was no escape, not from me. She’d had her chance when Giulio took her into Siderno, yet she hadn’t run. Now, I would never let her go until I was good and ready.

As we ate, conversation turned to other topics. We kept it in English, translating for Zia when she couldn’t think of the words except in Italian. It was the first time all four of us had eaten together since Francesca’s arrival. Normally I’d never have my mantenuta eat with my family, but Francesca was different. She was living here and had been about to marry my son. There was no bothering with keeping my two lives separate at this point.

She and Giulio started laughing about some television show they both knew. He told her about recent things he’d seen on some app, a celebrity who had been canceled—whatever the fuck that meant. As much as I told myself I wasn’t jealous, I was a bit envious of their friendship.

Popular culture had, for the most part, passed me by as the ’ndrina took up all of my time. I stayed off social media and the internet, and I rarely left the castello unless I had to. My father had been murdered on his way to a meeting, dying in the streets of Siderno like a dog. My wife had been shot and killed on the beach. Death stalked me every day, the same fate awaiting me the moment I let my guard down.

“Dovresti sposarla,” Zia said quietly to me. You should marry her.

“Falla finita, nonnina,” I snapped. I didn’t want to hear it.

I had married once when I was young and foolish. I would not be so stupid as to repeat that mistake, no matter how much I loved a woman’s pussy. And there was no reason to marry Francesca. She was not a virgin and I already had her here in my home, available whenever I needed. No one would dare stop me from having her, not even her father.

The only person who could stop me was Francesca. But she wouldn’t. She liked what we did, too.

Zia remained quiet, though I knew she had more to say. No doubt she’d give me an earful later. Considering my mother died when I was young, Zia was always more mother than aunt to me. Still, she wasted her breath if she thought to advise me on the topic of Francesca.

Once the dinner plates were cleared, Giulio left for an appointment, which I happened to know was a delivery at the waterfront. Zia went into the kitchen to help clean up, and Francesca and I were alone with our espresso. I waved her closer. “Vieni qua, dolcezza. Come here.”

“Why?”

“Because I told you to.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t fight me. Instead she picked up her cup and saucer and moved into Zia’s abandoned chair. With my foot, I angled her chair even closer, so our legs were nearly touching. “There. That’s better, no?”

“Thank you for the lamb.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t bear the thought of eating it.”

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