Page 31 of The Deal

“Did you pick all those clothes out for me?”

“No. I had my personal shopper do it,” he replies, his tone half-annoyed, like it’s the most obvious thing in theworld. Not to me, it isn’t. Even when my family had money, we’d buy our own clothes.

I’m surprised I’m not out of breath when we reach the formal dining room, considering how massively obnoxious his house is.

The long, black, onyx marble table, which can seat at least twenty people, stands in the centre of the room. Two place settings are arranged at one end, and I’m caught off guard when he pulls out my chair and gestures for me to take a seat.

When I falter, he commands, “Sit,” before taking his own seat opposite me.

A few minutes later, Carmella enters and places a plate in front of each of us. I glance down and see a variety of cured meats, cheeses, plump Sicilian olives—which I miss from my trips to Italy as a kid—and ciabatta bread. My stomach growls again on cue.

“Antipasto to start,” she says. “I baked the ciabatta fresh this afternoon.”

“It looks delicious,” I tell her.

“Enjoy,dolcezza,” she replies, briefly placing her hand on my shoulder.

“Thank you.”

She called me‘sweetness’, and I can’t help but like this woman, despite who she works for. My gut tells me she’s one of the good ones. There’s a motherly warmth about her, and she was so kind when she showed me to my room earlier—or should I say my prison cell.

It made me wonder how someone so lovely could happily work for such a monster. But when she sat beside me on the bed, softly stroked my hair, and said,“Mr Mancini is a wonderful man, Chloe. You’ll see that for yourself in time”,I concluded that she was either brainwashed or she saw a completely different person from the one I did.

“Eat,” he orders, picking up an olive and popping it in his mouth. If I weren’t so hungry, I’d tell him to go fuck himself … with a cactus.

I blow out a puff of air as I reach for my fork and stab a piece of prosciutto, twirling it around the prongs. But before I get a chance to bring it to my mouth, images of my father flash through my mind. This is one of his favourite foods, but it’s been a long time since I could afford to buy it for him.

What is he eating tonight?

I’m the one who cooks for us, so I’m guessing nothing. Knowing that makes my appetite vanish in an instant.

I drop my fork onto the plate and push it away.

“Problem?” Alexander asks, arching a brow.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit, Chloe.”

“I can’t eat this.”

“Why? Are you a vegetarian or something?”

“No. I was thinking about my dad. He doesn’t know how to cook for himself. He’ll never survive without me.”

“I told you I would take care of it.”

“When? What will happen to him in the meantime?”

He gives me a look before calling out, “Carmella.”

“Yes, Mr Mancini,” she answers, rushing back into the room.

“Box up a serving of everything we are having for supper tonight, and get Antonio to drop it off at Theodore Carmichael’s residence.”

“Really!” I say, sitting up straighter in my seat. “Can I go with him to see how my father is?”

“No,” he barks. “Now eat.”

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