Page 17 of Forced Vows

"But it's not done is it? Not until I give birth to a De Luca baby."

Which according to the agreement won't happen for at least two years because that's when she goes off her birth control. I didn't argue about that addition to the contract between our families.

My nephew is precious to me and I hope Severu and Catalina have lots of kids for Neri to play with, but I'm content to wait to be called papà myself.

There's no rush. Unlike my brother, I don't need heirs to take over from me one day.

Chapter 8: RÓISE

"Take a seat." Don De Luca indicates a seating area similar to the one in my uncle's office.

But unlike Uncle Brogan's penchant for traditional furniture in dark wood, Severu De Luca favors sleek, modern lines. And his office is even more massive than my uncle's.

There's room for the traditional office suite of executive desk and visitor's chairs, plus the seating area. Three dark leather couches form three sides of a square, while two matching chairs with a table between them make up the final side.

It reminds me of the main living room in the mansion.

Across from the seating area is a glass conference table with twelve chairs. A pile of documents and folders sits at one end.

Everything is staged to set a tone. That tone is wealth and power with a dash of prestige.

I'm in my third year of theater study at college; I know something about staging.

So does the don apparently.

I make a beeline for one of the chairs, but Ares…darn it, Miceli grabs my wrist. "Let's sit here."

Here is one of the sofas. He neatly maneuvers me to one end and sits smack in the middle, right beside me. His arm stretches across the back of the couch, surrounding me with his heat and scent.

The familiar peppery fragrance, with earthy undertones and a hint of lemon is enhanced by something I discovered that night in Portland is pure him.

I snooped in the bathroom of his suite and discovered the cologne is Dark Lord by Kilian. Two months ago, I didn't think anything of it. Now? It's funny, in a macabre way.

The mafia underboss is definitely a dark lord.

"Would anyone like coffee?" the don asks.

My gaze locks on the low table in the center of a seating area. It holds a tray with a gold rimmed China coffee service, complete with the obligatory pot of coffee, five cups and cream and sugar.

"No thank you," I say politely.

This meeting is stressful enough. Holding a hot beverage right now is just asking for trouble.

"I'll have a cup." My uncle sits back on the sofa with a complacent look directed my way.

In our home, men never pour their own coffee. Lucky for me and my feminist sensibilities, my uncle (and sometimes his men) only join us for dinner.

Grateful to put some distance between me and Miceli, I stand quickly and lean over to pick up the coffee pot. After pouring my uncle's cup, I add a splash of creamer, stir it with one of the small teaspoons and put it down in front of him.

I lay the teaspoon on a napkin on the tray since there are no saucers.

I'm about to sit back down when Uncle Brogan clears his throat meaningfully.

Since it will keep me out of my seat a little longer, I indulge his chauvinism and ask, "Can I pour for anyone else?"

Mamo would be proud of me. Not for the polite question, but for asking it in an even tone with no sarcasm.

Pick your battles, Rosy-girl.

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