Page 40 of Stolen Bride for the Don

“I could’ve fucked you that night, I could see it in your eyes. But it wasn’t just about one night, and I don’t share.”

Before I can cut into him, the waitress is back and places small plates of black cod on the table. “Miso–marinated black cod,” she says as she clears the plates of lobsters and scurries away.

I narrow my eyes on Hudson as I stab the cod and stick it in my mouth. My eyes widen in pleasure as the flavors explode in my mouth. I have to bite my lips to trap the moan bubbling at the back of my throat. Especially with the way Hudson is staring at me with such intensity. “Delicious,” I murmur and he nods in approval.

“We should use this opportunity to get to know each other, or rather you should use the opportunity to get to know me,” he corrects himself when I raise my fork threateningly.

“You’ll answer my questions honestly?” I ask.

“Of course. If I don't like a particular question, I’ll simply pass. I don’t lie.”

“You rarely lie,” I correct, remembering his words.

He chuckles softly and mutters, “See? You know that much about me already.”

I give him an unimpressed look as I forge ahead with, “How did you become a mafia don?”

He grabs his wine and takes a sip, “Going for the jugular I see,” he remarks to which I shrug.

What’s the point of getting to ask questions If I can’t ask the things I’m actually curious about? I did a quick google search on him yesterday and I could barely find anything. I found nothing on Hudson Moratti but plenty about Hudson Moor, the founder and CEO of Moor corporation, a conglomerate.

Thirty-five year old philanthropist and self-made billionaire. No known family. According to an old article, he ran away from an orphanage at the age of seventeen. Despite police searching–which I doubt was more than a week long–he couldn’t be found. Then he suddenly showed up when he was twenty-two and established Moor cooperation. Of course, there are no photos of him online so Hudson Moor remains an enigma to the general public.

I searched for Massimo Moratti and had even less information to digest. Just some articles about how bloody the streets of Rhode Island were the month he took over the city. A few more articles about his crime doing endeavors. No pictures. No biography. Nothing. It’s like he was a ghost before becoming the don of the Moratti family ten years ago.

“It’s a messy story. Not fit for dinner conversation. Especially a pre–proposal dinner,” he insists.

“Are you stalling?” I raise a brow and the corners of his lips twitch into a slight smile. The waitress comes back with the next dish. A geoduck clam dish.

“I was a capo for the previous ruling family. I studied the don and his family for years and when the time was right, I struck. Killed him and his useless son. Killed everyone else who were loyal to him, and rose to the throne.”

I shiver at the dark look in his eyes as he seems to remember that moment with relish. “Why?” Call me crazy, but the more I learn about him, the more I want to know. It’s never enough. Maybe I should be wary of him but when you grow up in a family like mine, you become desensitized to certain things.

“Why what?” he asks, his green eyes closing on mine.

“Why did you do that? You had to have a reason. You wouldn’t just kill innocent people.” I may not know about his history, but I know that much.

His face closes off. “They certainly were far from innocent. Next question.”

I nod. He definitely had a reason. Fuck, why am I so desperate for him to have a good reason to kill people? Justification or not, murder is murder and he just confessed to it. I should be disgusted. My attraction to him should be dead. I should–

“Andrea?”

I glance up at him dazedly; the waitress is back again. She sets a bowl of crab meatball soup in front of us. Just how many courses does this darned dinner have? Hudson grabs his spoon.

“You really should try this soup.”

It does smell divine, but I can’t let it distract me. “Do you kill people discriminately?” I ask, if only to prove to myself that he isn’t a big bad criminal who pulls the trigger on anyone unlucky enough to be at the other end of his gun.

He nods at my soup bowl. I sigh as I pick up my own spoon. I scoop some broth and meatballs. Delicious.

“What’s your definition of discriminate?” he asks, and I shrug. “If you mean do I kill people who cross me…well, the answer would be that it depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“The scale of the crime.” He shrugs. I remain quiet, hating that I understand exactly what he means. I grew up in the Beaufort family. I saw things, despite Dad’s attempt to shield me. We finish our soup in silence and dessert is brought out. Matcha Panna Cotta.

I tried to remove myself completely by leaving the family business to start my own, honest company, Liquid Elixir, which I’m quite proud of. I’m missing it fiercely now; the hustle of a Friday night, the friendly faces, the feeling that I’m helping people, even if just by providing them an escape from their lives for an evening. I suppose those days are over now, I think solemnly.

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