Page 32 of Burning Beauty

At 6:05pm she descended the stairs to the main part of the house and entered the dining room. Okay, she wasn't exactly on time, but she was trying. She looked around a little surprised that Cassandra was absent. The other woman had made such a fuss about being on time for meals with Nic.

The man himself was standing by the window, a glass of something alcoholic in hand. He turned as she hesitantly approached. He was so darkly handsome he stole her breath, especially when he frowned at her as he was doing now. She'd seen him around other people. He didn't frown, didn't smile, didn't so much as blink to indicate his true feelings. Only with her, it seemed, did he relax enough to show emotion.

"What are you wearing?" he asked, his cool gaze sweeping her outfit.

Maria shrugged and said, "I'm a casual girl."

She was wearing a pair of jeans and a cotton T-shirt that clung to her curves. Both items belonged to her. She added a short leather jacket that she'd found in the closet so she wouldn't be cold. In her rush to leave first Mexico, then Las Vegas she'd left most of her things behind. She had no choice but to supplement her few items of clothing with the wardrobe he provided.

"In my home we dress formally for dinner," he said disapprovingly.

"Uh huh, you didn't include that in the house rules earlier." That was going to be a fun rule to break. She wondered if she could get her hands on a burlap sack. "Where's Cassandra?"

"I asked her to eat in her room this evening," he said shortly. He strode to the side bar and poured a drink for Maria. She frowned as he handed her the glass but discovered a very delicious and smooth tequila.

"You didn't have to do that," Maria murmured after taking a healthy sip of her drink and savouring the burn as it made a path from her mouth to her stomach.

"I do what I want in my own home, and this evening I want you to myself." He held a chair out for her, and Maria sat, allowing him to push her in.

"It doesn't seem fair to punish Cassandra just because you want to get me alone. According to you, there'll be plenty of time for that sort of thing."

He studied her as if she were a science experiment. She got it. They were from two completely different worlds. Nic was born and raised to mafia privilege. His life was filled with both violence and insane wealth. Maria came from a somewhat humbler background. Her mama had worked two or three jobs at a time to keep her children fed. As soon as Maria and Ruiz were old enough to get jobs and contribute, they did.

Despite their poverty, Maria's family had been loving and happy. She remembered vacations in their broken down Volkswagen. Every evening they dined together unless someone had to work. The atmosphere had been filled with gossip and laughter and instilled in Maria a fun-loving attitude toward life. In her family home she was encouraged to be herself.

Though Nic seemed to share similar family ideals, his home was grim and formal. Maria wondered if maybe he wasn't loved as a child. She gazed at him as the first course was served, a warm delicious smelling soup. She couldn't imagine Nic as a child. He cut too terrifying of a figure for him to ever have been young and carefree. He looked as though he was born wearing his expensive superbly tailored suit and his mafia ring.

"Where did you grow up?" Maria asked curiously.

He looked at her, lifting a brow in surprise. Beyond questioning his criminal activities, she hadn't shown any interest in him or his life. Maybe if she got to know him better, got to understand him, she could teach him how to enjoy life, then get him to let her go.

"Italy," he answered shortly.

"Where in Italy?" she persisted, taking a big gulp of the ice water next to her plate then another sip of tequila.

"Sicily. Palermo." His tone was dismissive, but he was answering her questions, which encouraged her to persist.

"I thought Sicily and Italy were two different countries. So, would that make you Sicilian Mafia then?"

He shook his head and picked up his napkin to wipe his mouth before he spoke. "Italy is the country, Sicily is an island and Palermo is a city. Italian and Sicilian mafia are one and the same, Costa Nostra."

"Oh." She hadn't heard of that before, but she wasn't surprised. She grew up in rural Mexico, where the cartels were rampant. They dominated the newsfeed with their brutality and violence, their mob wars, leaving little room for native Mexicans to pay attention or care about any other type of crime organization.

She leaned back in her chair to allow room for her soup bowl to be taken and a dish piled with mouth-watering pasta, a savoury tomato-based meat sauce on top of fresh linguini noodles with parmesan cheese on top, to be placed in front of her.

She glanced at Nic and followed suit, picking up her fork and twirling it in the fragrant noodles. "When did you come to America?" She took a bite of her food and immediately closed her eyes, savouring the flavours of basil and thyme, forgetting her line of questioning.

This, right here, was why Maria would always be a curvy girl. She loved food too much, especially homemade dishes. And the food loved her too, sticking to her thighs and giving her an ass that would give a Brazilian butt lift a run for its money.

"I came to America less than a year ago," Nic told her, watching her keenly as she ate every morsel on her plate and then tried to flag down a waiter or servant, or whatever they were called, so she could ask for more.

"Why did you come here? Did things go bad in Italy? Were your crimes catching up with you and you had to flee so you could maintain your criminal enterprises on foreign soil?"

He shook his head and rubbed the space between his brows with his tattooed finger. "You watch too much TV. No, Maria, I did not flee Italy. I was sent away by my father and his associates."

"Failed to live up to expectations?" she asked sympathetically.

He laughed, the sound a grim bark. "No, I exceeded expectations. A little too much."

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