Page 6 of Protected By the Mafia

Something like a smile lifted Cristiano’s lips. “That’s good to hear. Still, it doesn’t mean I can just take you home with an apology and disappear.”

She frowned, her stomach rumbling again as she dragged in another breath of the hot breakfast. “Why not?”

He stepped aside and again indicated the breakfast. “Why don’t we talk about that while we eat? I promise, I won’t bite.”

“You’ve given me no reason to trust your promises.”

He arched a brow. “Haven’t I?”

She opened her mouth as her brain flashed through their limited history. Him stepping in out of nowhere to scare some manners into that boy at the store, then talking to her and sending her hormones out of whack for the rest of the day. Him kidnapping her in her sleep. Him being there when she woke up, having watched her sleep for who-knew-how-long, and patiently reacting to her frazzled freak-out. Him pinning her to the bed and yet barely touching her. The heat in his eyes that said he had wanted to when all he ultimately did was kiss her hand.

She swallowed. “So you didn’t rape me. Does that count as a good reason to trust your word?” She had to spit the question, because she hated the way it felt in her mouth, but it was also too valid not to put into words.

His expression hardened, becoming serious, the way it had in the grocery store. “My desire for you does not give me the right to use your body like some kind of toy. Nothing like that will happen between us unless, or until, I’m certain it’s something you want as well.”

The absolute earnestness of his voice and the way it matched the look in his eyes finally propelled her to slide to her feet. She was hungry, and she would think better with food in her belly. This is why I’m fat. But that was a problem for another day. She did her best to keep a little distance between herself and Cristiano as she rounded the bed and made her way to the table, examining the offerings up close.

It all smelled so good, she thought she could eat the whole damn platter. She’d regret it later, for sure, but she was an emotional eater. It tended to cloud her self-awareness. She glanced over her shoulder toward her captor. “I can choose what servings I eat?”

He nodded. “It’s all up to you.”

She looked back at the food. Fuck it. If she got herself killed, this was a way better way to go than pretty much all the ones she’d feared would find her. So she grabbed one of the forks and started dividing the portions, making sure to leave a slice of the fluffy French toast for Mr. Muscles. “If you really want to prove something to me,” she said as she finally reached for the syrup, “let me see you eat that.” She indicated the remaining slice with the syrup bottle.

Cristiano chuckled. She almost missed it, the sound was so low, but he actually chuckled.

She sat herself down in the chair in an effort to hide the way her body responded. If her body could make up its mind on whether it was hungry, horny, or petrified, that would be amazingly helpful.

Cristiano stepped up to the outer side of the desk, leaving a few feet of space between them, and took the syrup as soon as she set it down. He drizzled some over the top of the remaining slice, picked up the plate and second fork, and lifted it without pulling up another chair. “As you wish,” he said, meeting her stare again before stabbing the fork into the bread.

She bit back a groan and watched, irrationally riveted, as he pushed it into his mouth. She stared unabashedly as his lips closed around the fork and his jaw began to work, the fork sliding out again and bringing a thin, sparkly trail of syrup with it. She knew he knew she was staring, but she couldn’t look away. She rolled her lips between her teeth as his tongue darted out to catch the sticky syrup at the corner of his mouth and she swallowed heavily when she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he took it down.

French toast had never been so sexy.

If he just stood in front of her and ate that whole slice, she would surely spontaneously combust. Never mind that it had been her idea.

Nearly fumbling her loaded plate entirely off her lap, Felicity reached out and grabbed hold of the nearest coffee. Maybe a shot of caffeine would clear her mind. Even if only enough to eat her damn breakfast. She wanted a bite of her own French toast … almost as badly as she wanted to know what Cristiano’s mouth could do to her.

He ate the whole slice before he bothered pulling the other chair in the room up to the table. And when he did, he settled it close enough that his knee bumped hers. There was no way that was not a deliberate positioning, but after the way she’d gotten so hot and bothered simply watching him eat, Felicity held back any rational complaint.

“So,” he said as he cut into his eggs, “if the food’s agreeing with you, did you want to talk?”

Talk. Talking was good. Talking was smart. If she could trust herself not to say anything humiliating. Felicity choked down the last bite of her sausage and lowered her fork, allowing herself a moment. The food was delicious. She doubted he needed to be told that. Her people-pleasing instincts made it hard to keep the compliment inside. She chased it back with a gulp of coffee and finally noticed his own. “Do you really drink your coffee like this?” She liked hers with sugar and cream, enough to turn the black liquid a rich brown color. Both drinks looked exactly the same.

His lips kicked up at the corner. “No,” he said. “I prefer it black. But I wanted you to have the choice, for whatever comfort it might offer. It won’t kill me to drink it this way once in a while.”

She felt her expression soften. “I should be raving mad and terrified right now,” she said quietly. “A smarter woman would probably be at least trying to contemplate ways to turn this fork into a weapon. And I won’t say I wasn’t scared for a minute, but … it’s more like, I’m trying to be scared, rather than I’m actually feeling that way.”

He lowered his own fork and leaned back in his chair, studying her. “You’re saying you’re not afraid of me?”

She snorted before she could stop herself. “I’m born and raised in this city,” she said. “I know the De Salvos are dangerous. But something being dangerous doesn’t mean I have to be shaking in fear of it all the time, right? That’s kind of where I’m at.”

He pulled a napkin from beneath the sausage plate and offered it to her. “You wanted to know what this had to do with your brother.”

Her fingers curled a little too tightly around the napkin as she took it from him. “Half.”

“Tristán’s gotten mixed up in a new gang,” Cristiano said. “Do you know anything about the Ink Blots? Who runs them, maybe what their objective is? We know they have a benefactor, but Tristán’s managed to keep his mouth shut on who that actually is.”

Felicity set her coffee on the desktop beside her plate as her hands started to shake. “Ink Blots?” She brought the napkin to her face, as much in an attempt to get herself composed as to clean her mouth. Again, it crumpled in her grip as her unpredictable half-brother’s taunting sneer flitted across her mind. “I … think I’ve heard the name recently,” she said, trying to think beyond her fear.

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