Page 24 of Mafia Princess

“Who did this?” He gestures to my face.

“None of your business.” He closes the gap between us. The blaze behind his eyes has me back-pedaling. Why the fuck does he care who smashed my face up?

“You are my fucking business,” he growls so low I almost miss it.

“Excuse me?” I grip the bread knife handle in agitation.

He steps closer, so our bodies touch and grabs my wrist. “Tell me who fucking did this to you or I’ll tell your Papa about your little fuck buddy.”

I try to pull my wrist free, but he squeezes it in his strong fingers, the pain almost unbearable. I narrow my eyes at him, unsure if he’s fucking with me or not, and let the knife drop from my hand. It clatters to the floor, the sound bouncing between us. “Some Irish fuckers.”

He pulls my arm so I stumble hard against him. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Milan’s gaze burns into me, his sadistic desires painted on his masculine features.

“Could you two leave it for the wedding night?” Mason’s voice breaks the spell and Milan lets go of my wrist.

I don’t move from my position. I’m not backing away. His eyes search mine for something I don’t give him, and he steps away from me. Never make the first move. Never let your opponent know you’re weaker by backing down first. I throw him a snarky smile before I take my seat at the table. He collects himself and seats himself directly across from me. Fucking great.

Papa and Tommaso stride in discussing some bullshit with territories, like they’re long-lost cousins. I watch them carefully, trying to pinpoint the time when their business became all too familiar with one another. Papa sits to my left, and Tommaso sits next to his son. Mason has taken the seat at the other end of the table.

“How cute. A family dinner,” I interrupt their discussion. Both mob bosses stare at me.

“This dinner is for your benefit, Maya. I expect you to co-operate.” Papa clenches his jaw.

Vana enters the room with the antipasto, and my stomach growls in appreciation. I don’t bother with my manners; I grab a slice of prosciutto and shove the whole thing in my mouth, savoring the saltiness., and dismissing the stares of the men and the table. “What? I’m hungry.”

“You’re something, that’s for sure.” Mason copies me and throws a slice of salami in his mouth.

“Please, forgive my children. They seem to have left their manners on the doorstep.” Papa shakes his head at me. Never at Mason.

“So, what exactly are we discussing tonight?” I grab a baby bocconcini and pop it in my mouth.

Milan hasn’t touched a single thing. He looks so out of place in this dining room. Like he doesn’t belong in a family setting. He’s too stoic and composed, as though he’s never relaxed in his entire life.

“This marriage arrangement and what it means for our families.” Tommaso glances at his son.

“So, it doesn’t need to involve me. I mean, the decisions have already been made. Have they not?” I take a sip of my Masseto, a wine made at our vineyard in Tuscany. A place I haven’t visited since I was a child.

I remember holidaying there in Summer. The days long and hot, spent by the pool, and the nights spent eating and reading in the hammock swing. Childhood memories I cherish and want to forget all the same.

“Maya,” Papa’s voice jerks me back to reality.

“What?”

“You get one request.”

“One whole request. How generous,” I tear off a bit of bread-the knife is still on the floor-and shove it in my mouth. I figure if my mouth is full, I can’t speak.

Milan watches me in fascination. He hasn’t spoken one word since I told him who fucked my face up. He’s sat across from me too busy with his phone.

“Maya.” Papa looks agitated and frustrated with me for not taking this arrangement seriously.

“I’m not siring heirs,” I say with my mouth full of bread. I stare at Milan, waiting.

“Not an option.” Papa grips his whiskey glass and takes a long drink.

I’m about to explode in anger, but I stuffed my face so full of bread that I can barely swallow it. I chew as fast as I can, and I’m sure everyone is getting a lovely view of what is in my mouth, but I don’t give a fuck at this point. No man is going to tell me what I will and will not do with my body.

Milan’s dark gaze finds mine, and I can’t read him. His face remains emotionless, like this conversation means zilch to him. Of course it does; he’s the male. He’ll get what he wants in the end, no matter who he tramples or murders in the process.

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