Page 45 of The Merciless King

I don’t want this sexy man taken away from me. I have to make this work. I can’t imagine another man on earth making me feel the way he does.

I want him.

The end.

I lead Braxton through the house to the dining room where the long family table has been laid out with crystal glasses, silverware, and one of my favorite dinner sets.

“What is this?” Mama asks as she enters from another entrance, then stops when she sees Braxton. “Oh. Ciao. Gianna, you have a guest.”

“Sì mamma, questo è Braxton Rossi.” I introduce her.

“Piacere di conoscerti Braxton. Please call me Angela. You are Italian?” She asks.

“Sì.” He smiles. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Baldassare.”

“And you are? Friends?”

“Mama, we are dating. Braxton and I are—”

“The boy says he’s in love with her.” Papa drops into his seat at the head of the table, and Mama glances back at me in surprise.

She’s a strong and smart woman. I can see the question in her eyes. She knows I play my cards close to my chest, so the fact I haven’t introduced Braxton to them earlier would be something I’d do.

“Braxton isn’t a boy, Papa.” I shake my head, then lift my face to his. “I’m sorry.”

“No, he is not,” Mama says, sitting.

Braxton presses his hand into the small of my back to tell me he’s okay. “Don’t be. The day I meet my daughter's lover, I’d want to kill him too.”

“You have a daughter?” Mama asks, surprised.

“No. Not yet. Perhaps one day.” Braxton winks at me and I blush.

I never fucking blush.

“For fuck's sake. Sit.” My father demands in his thick accent, pointing at the chairs.

“Where is your family from?” Mama asks as we take our seats and place our napkins on our laps. Braxton sips his water and his hand lands on my leg.

My father watches with complete distrust as the interrogations begin. I’m twenty-five but a mafia princess.

I’ve only ever brought one guy home to meet my parents. It was when I was seventeen. He never called me again. Papa scared him halfway across the country, so I was told.

I felt terrible.

But it taught me a lesson.

If Braxton was half the man he is, and didn’t already work with people like my father, I would never have even considered it.

“Chicago. They work in banking.” Braxton answers my mother and waits for his wine to be poured by one of our employees. Then he glances at my father. “And by that, I mean normal, everyday banking.”

Papa stares at him for a while, then slowly drags his gaze to me. In one seemingly innocent sentence, Braxton has indicated he’s well aware of the industries my father trades in.

As our meal is served, small talk takes place and while there is constant tension, I begin to relax somewhat. Braxton holds his own and is confident and attentive to me.

“How long have you two been dating?” Mama asks.

Braxton slides his knife and fork on his plate, pats his lips on his napkin, then leans his arm on the back of my chair.

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