Page 7 of The Mafia's Seamstress

As for the lining I was going to hold off for now. I hadn’t found the right pattern to match. Halfway through cutting my hands began to shake. The headache was pounding now. I knew I shouldn’t have skipped lunch again. I felt Dante's eyes on me.

"Is everything-" before he could finish his sentence my stomach growled. His eyebrows shot up and his lips twitched. "Hungry Cinderella?" he teased. I sat back and mumbled a yeah. There was no point in denying it. He shook his head. "Didn't you eat lunch?"

Looking over at him, I stretched my arms, taking a calming breath. He was sitting in the chair, legs spread out. His thighs stretch against his navy slacks. His button up black shirt was practically painted on his chest. Definitely another custom made piece.

God, he was exquisite. The same itching feeling in my fingers came alive. But my stomach conquered the urge to sew. His full lips were twisted in a lopsided grin.

"No. I was busy," I said. His gaze hardened and he pulled out his phone.

"I'll order food. You shouldn't be skipping meals," he said.

“Obviously. But if you haven’t noticed I have a lot of work including a suit that I have barely three days to put together,” I said. He ignored my sassy remark and kept scrolling through his phone.

"What do you want?" he asked. Looking at him I was tempted to say something that would ensure a flirtatious response. And it was appealing enough that I couldn't stop myself from saying it.

"Anything but Italian," I said. He smirked, shaking his head. I stretched my fingers and went back to finishing cutting the fabric. I could have sworn I heard him say, for now.

CHAPTER 3

Why Are Mafia Men Hot?

IF YOU CAN’T STAND THE HEAT, GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN UNLESS…

Imay have done a miscalculation. I didn't realize just how big of a distraction Mr. Costa would be. Even though he confined himself to a chair and his phone, his presence was suffocating...in the most peculiar way.

The thread slid out of the needle again. I cursed under my breath. Every few stitches my eyes wandered to the man sitting in the corner and my fingers were aching to do something that didn’t involve sewing.

I grunted as I attempted to rethread the stupid needle. I pricked my finger..again. This time I didn't dare look at him. He would probably make some snide remark about my focus and whether or not the degree on the wall was in fact mine.

The door dinged open and a man in a suit carrying plastic bags walked in. The smell immediately made my stomach growl. Mr. Costa stood up and took the bags from who I assumed was his minion. I hated to admit even the minion had a decent looking suit.

I watched as they whispered under hush breaths. It must be nice to have someone on your beck and call. Someone to do your dirty work, your laundry and errands. I could use someone to do my laundry. I snorted. Mr. Costa turned to the side to look at me and I went back to my stitches. Once his minion was out the door he flipped the sign to close.

"Um, we're not close," I said.

"We’re eating lunch now," he said sternly.

“At this point this would qualify as early dinner,” I pointed out. He moved to stand in front of me and waved at me to stand up. I crossed my arms and sat back. He scoffed before turning to head to the back. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’ve had coffee with your grandfather plenty of times to know where the kitchen in this building is. Now get up,” he said with an authoritarian tone that both heated my blood for more than one reason. He stood waiting in the hallway that led to the dressing rooms, the office and the kitchen.

“There’s windows out here so if you try something I have a witness,” I said, cooly, pointing to the front of the shop. A dark chuckle escaped his lips and fuck it was deep and gravely.

“You think an audience would stop the Don of the Italian mafia?” he said, voice dipping. My face flamed as thoughts raced through my head. Thoughts I only had when I was curled up in bed with a book. Ignoring his comment and the way his tone affected me I stood and followed him towards the back room.

It was a small kitchen. A table, four chairs, sink, some cabinets, microwave and a small fridge. I eyed our coffee machine.

I’ve had coffee with your grandfather plenty of times to know where the kitchen in this building is.

I needed to know just how deep my avô was with the mafia. The man before me held all the answers. When did this start? How did it start? And most importantly how do I end it?

I sat across from Mr. Costa as he set the bags on the table and began taking out the food. I needed to ask questions in a way that didn’t make the wolf in front of me feel cornered. A whiff of tomato and oregano crossed my nose.

"I thought I said no Italian," I said, breaking the silence. My voice came out harsher than intended but he seemed to brush it off.

Casting a sideways glance he said, "I know. This is for me."

Opening the second bag the smell reminded me of home; garlic, wine and red peppers. My stomach growled again.

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