Page 30 of Mafia Princess

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit your dress, Principessa.” He blows out a sharp breath.

So, we’re back to Principessa.

“Asshole suits yours,” I quip.

He doesn’t say another thing, instead simply dragging me after him until we’re facing the closed doors to the function room. “Last chance to run.”

“And get killed. I have business I need to take care of first. You lead the way, fiancé.” I shoot him a glare, my nerves almost getting the better of me. I contemplate running. I could escape out into the New York streets and get lost in the crowds. Only, they would hunt me down and drag me back to this world. There is no escape.

We enter and the room falls silent before erupting into the loudest wave of cheers and whistles.

Chandeliers seep from the ornate ceiling while the marble floor gleams and reflects the hundreds of tea light candles decorating the opulent room. The assault of florals, hints of vanilla mixed with sweet jasmine, topped with notes of citrus circle us as we meander to our table front and center. Carved golden chairs and crisp white tablecloths give the room a royal feel. Each table has the largest explosion of pastel florals I have ever seen.

If this wasn’t an arranged marriage, this would be every soon-to-be bride's wet dream. I draw the line at letting some man pull my chair out for me, and before Milan manages to touch my chair, I pull it out and seat myself. I hear him mutter something under his breath as he takes his seat next to me. At our table are our immediate family members and I mentally note that I’m at a table filled with men, when it dawns on me that only the men survive this life.

The crowd quiets down when the food is delivered. Straight into business, it seems. I’m not complaining; I’m starving. Spending the day getting dolled up has made me ravenous. I don’t even know what is on the menu. I had no part in organizing this event. Papa gave me his card and told me to find a dress and that’s where my part stopped. I just had to show up. I glance around at the other tables. Some guests I recognize, others look as though they are government officials.

I lean over to Mason. “Who are all these people?” I ask him, hoping he knows the answers.

“Mostly senators and heads of state. I don’t know half of them; I think they’re mostly business associates.” He shrugs.

I eye the baked salmon placed in front of me and pull a face. If anyone cared about me in this shitshow, they would know I’m allergic to seafood and shellfish.

“What, the food not up to your prissy standards?” Milan watches me, his eyes roaming over the glittering diamonds dripping down my cleavage.

“I’m allergic to seafood and shellfish,” I say and watch the humor drain from his face.

“Well, fuck. Here, have my steak.” He grabs my plate, just as I lean right away from it, and places his steak between my cutlery.

I see Papa out of the corner of my eye, watching our exchange, a look of panic plastered on his otherwise serene composure. He, too, is reliving the incident of my anaphylaxis years ago. I thought I was going to die, and he thought the same. I’d never seen my Papa turn so ghostly white before as when his shaking fingers dialed for the paramedics. Since that only episode, he has banned any type of seafood or seafood product in our house and no one is allowed to order a seafood dish when we're out at dinner.

I nod to Papa to let him know that I have my pen. He looks as though he wants to pick me up and whisk me away. Oh, Papa, don’t you see that the man you’re marrying me off to is far more dangerous than the seafood that can kill me?

“Thanks,” I say, turning back to Milan and relaxing.

“I didn’t know.” He looks genuinely apologetic.

“Why would you? I mean, we don’t know anything about one another.” I shrug him off. This isn’t his problem to deal with.

I see his hand grip the edge of the table before he stands and strides to the closest server. They pale in his presence but listen to his demands like an obedient puppy, nodding in agreement before they glance at me and back at Milan. He casually returns to our table and resumes drinking his champagne.

“What are you doing?” I brace my elbows on the table and look at him in confusion.

Just as he’s about to reply, a line of servers whisk around the dining room collecting all the fish dishes, apologizing as they go.

“Fixing my mistake,” he replies, nonchalantly sipping his champagne.

“You didn’t need to do that.” I huff in annoyance.

“I didn’t, but I just did. Learn to let people do things for you, Principessa. You don’t always have to look out for yourself. Not anymore.” He narrows his eyes at me, daring me to argue with him.

I gracefully take my knife and fork and slice off a huge chunk of steak, shoving it in my mouth, grinning at him as I chew the tender meat. “It’s good.” I nod.

Milan shakes his head at me as I stab a roast parsnip and bite it in half off the fork. His food arrives and I watch him eat like the gentleman I know he is not, placing small bitesize pieces in his mouth and chewing slowly.

He leans in close, hovering his lips at my ear, his warm breath tickling me. “Eat up, Principessa. You’ll need all your energy for what I have planned for later tonight.” He darts his tongue out and licks my ear.

I swallow my mouthful of food, unable to form a good comeback quick enough.

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