Page 38 of King Of Order

‘Figlio di puttana,’ I growled, resisting, attempting to escape his tight hold. ‘Get off me!’

‘Keep struggling, Chiara,’ he rasped. ‘I like it. If you really wanna fight, we can take it upstairs. If you want to scream, it’ll be my pleasure to make you. I’ll give you the best duel you’ve ever had.’

‘Cazzo! Merda! Stronzo!’ I snarled, launching into a series of profanities as I strained to free myself.

He laughed as my twisting body bumped against him.

It took another few beats before my logical mind came to its senses. I didn’t have the strength to wriggle from the hold.

I sagged in his clasp.

He grunted in triumph. ‘Wasn’t so hard now?’ he grated into my ear.

His eyes raked over my face, narrowing as they slipped lower.

‘Who did that to you?’

His voice dropped to a dangerous guttural utterance.

‘What?’

‘That nasty bruise on your neck,belleza. Who the hell hurt you?’

‘Just some fucker,’ I murmured, tearing my eyes at him, not wanting to get into my family drama.

He cursed under his breath, then released me.

But not without twisting the cane from my hands and tossing it into a kitchen corner.

His face was clouded with dark emotion as he pushed off, turning from me, a storm brewing in his eyes.

On my stove, I spotted the moka pot burbling.

I stared as if in a dream as steam began to hiss from its spout.

He adjusted the temperature to medium.

‘Too hot, and it’ll burn,’ he muttered, half to himself.

The rich scent of coffee filled the space, the bubbling sound signaling the brew’s final moments.

As the liquid trickled out with a dark honey-like hue, Rio removed the vessel from the heat, keeping the lid closed.

‘It’s all about timing,’ he said with a glance in my direction, his burr deep and calm. He nabbed two cups, the steam curling between us. ‘Will you join me?’

He prowled to my dining table with the pot in his other hand.

I placed my hand over my beating chest, attempting to catch my breath. ‘How dare you?’

He sat, too much at ease, as if he’d always belonged in my kitchen and eating area.

Exasperated, I took a moment to assess him, from his patent leather shoes to his thick, long legs encased in dark pants.

His upper body was a work of art in an impeccable white shirt with a snaking hint of ink on his honeyed skin under it.

His rolled-up sleeves showed off muscular, tanned, inked forearms. He poured and then held one steaming cup of coffee in one hand, sipping as if this were the most normal morning in the world.

He had a look in his pale eyes, gazing at me with wary sentiment, his lips quirking, amused by my ridiculous attempt to defend myself.

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