Page 17 of The Merciless King

Fuck, I don’t know.

In the mafia it’s all about the families.

She’s married. I don’t want to ask if the sex is good... well, I do. Connor Barrett is gorgeous. But that would be inappropriate.

“We might refurbish it. Despite everything, it was the home I grew up in with my mother,” Mia tells me. “How is your mom?”

I smile. “Angela? She is good. Bossy as always.”

“And your brother?”

“Dante is well. Still wiping the drool from his chin whenever he sees Adelina Baldoni.” I roll my eyes.

Mia giggles. “He’s had a crush on her forever. Why do they not marry?”

“Adie can’t stand him.”

“No. I was sure she liked him, too. Didn’t they get caught kissing in the poolroom?” Mia asks.

I try to recall that, but don’t. Anyway, it’s not the reason why they aren’t together, but I cannot tell her any more than that.

“He should move on. Perhaps you have some friends.”

“Oh, all my friends are hooked up...let me think. If he has his heart set on Adie, then they might get together one day.”

They won’t.

“Perhaps.” I lie.

Mia watches me and I think she can see through the lie. Mafia families are complex when it comes to marriage and business. The demands on children are unfair and especially if you are a girl.

“Few would understand the lives we have lived,” I say, sipping my wine. “Thank you for reaching out, Mia. I have few friends.”

Her smile fades. “Gianna, no. That makes me sad.”

I shrug. “Who do you trust when you are a mafia princess?”

When her eyes dart away, I wonder if I see guilt in her eyes or a sad memory returning. I brush it away. Mia has no reason to lie to me. She is probably reflecting back on her life.

“You should have friends. Everyone needs friends.” She finally says and I wave out my hand, tossing back the last of my wine and waving to the server for another one.

“A problem for another day. Shall we get the bottle?”

“Yes.” Mia grins. “And something to nibble on. I’m starving.”

We’re on the second bottle and licking our fingers after devouring a plate of baked Camembert and citrus-marinated olives when I see a tall, dark-haired man walk into the bar.

My motions slow, my tongue slowly running over my lip as I take him all in. His tailored black suit hugs his body like he was born in it, and his shoes are designer. A heavy watch peaks out from his cuff as he runs a hand though his short dark curls.

Then silvery blue eyes catch mine as he stops at the bar.

He holds my gaze for a moment, speeding up my pulse, then turns, without a smile or barely a blink, to the bartender.

And yet my panties are soaked.

Holy hell.

I’ve never reacted to a man so powerfully before.

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