Page 89 of Princess of the Mafia

She leaned over and patted my chest. “We are both happy about it.”

Jesus! Her sassiness got me every single time. The urge to push her down to her knees and wrap that smirk on my cock sufficed. But instead, I pulled her between my legs. “What about my tattoos?” I growled on her neck.

“She said you fucked again. I calculated and it was supposed to be right after you got this.” Her fingers trailed the back of my hand. “It didn’t add up.”

“What happened to your phone?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. I thought I had it when I got on the subway, but when I got off, I didn’t. Maybe I left it in uni.”

The back of my teeth clenched. Was she for real? How could she be strong enough to figure out a pack of interconnected lies but naïve enough to not think someone had swiped her phone in the sub?

I sniffed her neck and breathed in her fragrance. “I thought I’d lost you.” My words sounded needy, even to me, but I was three whiskeys down, God knows how many cigarettes, and there was Martello blood still boiling in my veins. I didn’t care that I sounded vulnerable. Just fucking elated to have her back in my arms.

She pushed me off. “You might if I don’t eat.”

I frowned. There was something off about her.

My gaze followed her as she took plates from the kitchen and set the table. Porcelain and cutlery sounded as loud as gunshots in the silent room. She set the table like she was expecting company, but I could only count two plates. She brought the box and put it in the middle and the mouthwatering smell of home-cooked lasagne reminded me I had drunk too much, and smoked even more, but had eaten nothing.

“Come on.”

I followed her and took my seat. My face burned with her gaze when I took my first mouthful. She had nothing on her plate and a question on her face. “And?”

I scowled.

“You like it?”

“What’s there…” I trailed off. You’ve got to be kidding me. “You made this?” I looked at my plate like it was a plate full of sparkles instead of lasagne sheets and Bolognese sauce.

“Yes.” She was on her knees on the chair and leaned over with her elbows on the table. “So you like it?”

It was too fucking sweet. She must have mixed up her salt with sugar, and the minced meat could have cooked longer. “It’s fucking delicious, Principessa. Is this why you went to Benedetta?”

“Yes. I can’t believe you like it.” She took her fork and made to take a bite from the box. I stopped her with my wrist in her hand. Didn’t want her to figure out the sweet and salt mix-up.

“I want it all.”

She laughed, and it touched all the malicious walls in my body. She dropped the fork. “I wasn’t hungry, anyway.”

I shoveled it in at a rapid tempo. Didn’t want her to change her mind. Tomorrow, I’d let Benedetta handle it subtly. “Why didn’t you make it in here?”

“Didn’t want to make a mess of it.”

“I don’t care about the mess you make, Principessa.”

“Yes, you do!”

I stilled and frowned. “Fine, I do care. But we can clean it up later.”

I halted with my fork midway. A man should love me for myself floated in my head.

A sudden knowledge, thick and syrupy, planted itself in my brain, and the desire to eat sucked out of me. I slid the plate across the table, where it clattered against the other dishes and cutlery. She blinked.

I pushed my chair back and in a flash, had her on the table.

“You cooked for me.”

Her face fell. Like she realized the implications. Only now.

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