Page 36 of Princess of the Mafia

“Not with that one. She’s bad news, Daria. Stay away from her and delete that number.”

“Why?”

“She just is. Now, delete that number.”

Of course, ‘she just is.’ We women didn’t deserve any explanations. We just had to do as we were told. “No. I am done with all of you. Telling me who I have to marry, what I have to wear, and who I can be friends with.”

He glared at me as we stood at a stand-off while New Yorkers bustled past us.

“What’s your problem, anyway? Is she an ex-girlfriend or something?”

“Or something. Now give me that goddamn phone.”

“No.” I shoved it into my bag and clutched it to my chest.

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and looked up at the sky as if answers were going to dangle off it in a second.

“Just tell me who she is.”

He scowled at me. “Fuck it. I’ll let Enzo handle this. Let’s go. Sight-seeing’s over.”

“You’re so much fun,” I said as Stefano closed the front door behind us. ‘Your brother, not so much,’ went unsaid. I was also trying to butter him up again to that casual man from this morning.

We’d taken the metro back, against his better judgment, but complying with my wishes to tick off another first. I was determined to grab all the firsts that didn’t involve the man I married.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and the asshole’s glass-clad tower filtered and reflected the light and sparkled off his things. If it was my home, dust particles would shine and shimmer in the air. His metal chest was all sparkly and polished.

I padded into the living room and stopped mid-stride. My good mojo drained out of me like water down the drain. Black on black, I might have missed him if it weren’t for the haze of smoke surrounding him. Slunk on a low black leather armchair, one ankle on his knee. The pile of cigarettes in the ashtray and the strong nicotine cloud hanging in the living room told me he’d been here for some time, or he was a fast smoker. I coughed in the pungent smell.

His glare pinned me from head to toe and back. He obviously didn’t like what he saw. He must have been moody before I walked in, but now he was downright wild with fury.

“About fucking time,” he growled.

“What? Did you expect me to make lunch?” I lurched back. My heart thumped at my insanity. I had no idea where the gatekeeper was because there seemed to be no barrier in my mouth.

“You should know she can’t cook,” Stefano said, coming up behind me, and I giggled at our inside joke.

His furious scowl shifted over my shoulder to Stefano. “You allowed her to go out dressed like this?”

Medda! My body vibrated from his rage, but I wasn’t taking this from him. I wasn’t an item to be talked about when I was right in front of him. “He didn’t allow me to do shit. I can wear what I want. I’m not some stupid doll of yours.”

Stefano chuckled quietly behind me to Lorenzo’s glare.

“You,” he pointed to Stefano. “In my office.”

He got up leisurely and strolled toward us. Every step he took made the danger lining his irises sharper. The closer he got, the darker his intentions looked. My spunk of a few moments ago vanished like a puff of his smoke. Fear trickled into my heart for my cognato. I didn’t know him enough to judge his reactions. So the moment he made to pass me, I clutched his arm tightly with both my hands.

He faltered, and both our gazes fell to my hand on his arm. My eyes burned in fear as my pink nails dug into his warm arm. “Please,” I pleaded. “It’s my fault.” I dragged my eyes with effort to find his already on mine. “He didn’t like it either.”

His arm was as hard as steel and hot as scalding iron. It was comfort and warmth at the same time. The cigarette butt glowed orange and sparked brightly at the end of his hand. Three stuttered heartbeats followed. A block of hot ash dripped onto the tiled floor. He didn’t seem to notice. But I did and let go of his arm instantly. A flicker in his iris showed a darkness that sucked me in. A breath of hot air left my lips. A shake of his head and he moved past with a “Let’s go, Stefano.”

I turned to follow, but he must have had eyes on the back of his head because his tight voice cut through the air, “Not you, Daria,” as he walked away.

“Don’t worry, cognata, this is about business,” Stefano said lightly before following him, but we both knew it wasn’t.

So I sat in the cold living room and huddled on the couch. Minutes ticked away at a snail’s pace, and my head ran mad with imagination. The moment I heard the whoosh of a door opening, I found myself out in the foyer. Stefano came out of a room that must have been Lorenzo’s office, followed by the devil himself. My eyes ran to my cognato in relief before they caught on the asshole. He was frowning like the sight of me was a hangover from a drunken night.

“See?” Stefano said lightly as he made for the front door. “He’s just a kitten when handled right.”

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