Page 12 of Mafia and Gold Digger

I keep quiet. It isn’t about what Iwant. It’s about what Ineed.Money for rent, food, and bills.

“And you’re pretty enough to get whatever you want out of him.”

My pulse starts racing. Does he know that I’m calledthe Fiorelli whore—that because my mom’s a hooker, everyone likes to speculate that I’m one too?

“Are you hoping that he'll marry you?”

“No.”Yes.

“Because he won't, you know.”

“I don't care.”Yes, I do. A lot.

“You know you can do better than Ronnie Mainetto.”

I don’t answer. Being the Fiorelli whore wildly limits my options. Anyway, I’m in love with Ronnie.

“You probably think you’re in love with him.”

Holy crap, how does he know what I’m thinking?

“But he doesn’t love you,” he clips.

And that’s like an arrow to my heart.

This arrogant man can’t possibly know if Ronnie loves me or not. But the irrational part of me wonders if he’s heard something. I mean, why would Ronnie lovesomeone like me?

“Does he make you deliver guns?”

“He doesn’tmakeme do anything.”

“So, you’re delivering guns for the Imperiosi.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question.

I curse inwardly. “I, er, didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to. I already know the answer.”

“So, why are you asking me?” My voice rises as irritation races through me.

“Because I can. Does he make you sell your body too?”

“What?” I blurt out.

He leans forward and places his elbows on the table. His proximity makes me suddenly feel too hot. “You know, to make even more money out of you?”

“He doesn’t force me to doanythingto make money for himself.” My words hurl through the air. Some of the girls at the casino sleep with the clientele for money, but I’m not one of them. If he’s trying to unsettle me, then he’s succeeded. Is this where in the conversation he tries to trip me up and attempts to make me reveal some information about the Imperiosi?

To my surprise, however, he sits back in his chair and focuses on eating his cannoli. “You should eat. It’s good.”

I want to refuse, but I’m hungry. I quickly scoop up the cannoli, savoring the sweet, creamy flavor of every mouthful. The fried pastry dough is topped with chopped pistachios, candied fruit, and chocolate chips, all sprinkled liberally with sugar, and the heavenly combination melts on my tongue.

I’m still hungry, and I start on my ice cream, as does he. And when I swallow the last mouthful, I look up into his gaze.

“Finished?” he asks.

I give a small nod.

He stands up, and grasping my arm again, he leads me out of the coffee shop and across the street.

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