Page 17 of Owned by the Italian Mafia Boss
I cross my arms over my chest. “Let me guess, you never lose?”
My stomach takes that moment to remind me I haven’t eaten, and I stroll by him toward the kitchen open to the living room.
He grips my arm and yanks me back. “I don’t put myself in a position to lose, Delilah. If I am, I deal with it.”
“So you cheat?”
“I don’t fight fair, Sweetling. I fight to get ahead. I fight to get what I want, and I don’t care whom I hurt.” He reaches out to touch my face, and I cringe, closing my eyes so I don’t see what he is about to do. He tucks a piece of my wayward hair behind my ear. “But the last person I will hurt is you.”
I open my eyes and get lost in his, the intense depths having me hold my breath. The contact is unnerving. I’m not sure if I believe him. I know what he is capable of, and if I make him upset, will there be a time when I’m facing the barrel of his gun?
“I will also hurt whomever puts one hand on you. You are mine, Delilah. Your worries, laughter, fears, the air in your lungs, belong to me.”
“They don’t belong to you until I sign that contract,” I remind him, overcoming the loud thump of my racing heart.
Carmine gestures toward the kitchen. “After you, Sweetling.”
His fingers brush my leg when I walk by him, and his footsteps sound behind me.
I don’t need to see him to know he’s watching me. I can feel his gaze roaming my backside, and a flush warms my cheeks from the weight of his stare. What kind of woman does it make me to enjoy the attention of a villain?
In the kitchen, my fingers skim the breakfast bar’s granite countertop. The stools are strategically placed the same width apart. All the appliances are stainless steel, and light bulbs hang in various lengths above a kitchen table that can easily sit twelve people.
A glossy and matte black mural covers the wall facing me. The more I look at it, the more confused I am trying to interpret the random angry, tear-like slashes. It’s emotional, and the longer I stare at it, the more I fall into the abyss of emotion.
“It’s called ‘Oblivion.’” Carmine slides out a chair for me, and I take a seat. The shirt I’m wearing rides up my thighs a few inches.
“It’s haunting,” I say, honestly, folding my hands on the table.
Carmine sits at the head of the table. His chair is different from the others, larger with carvings engraved in the wood. He leans over, slipping one arm behind my chair and gripping the edge of the seat between my legs with the other. He yanks my chair forward, dragging me closer to him.
I yelp, slapping the table with my palms.
His fingers tease my inner knee before drifting up my leg and tracing circles on my thigh, close to where I’ve been hiding how much I burn for him.
“And so are you,” he whispers into my ear, gripping the hem of the shirt before tugging it down to cover more of my legs. “You will test me, I can already tell, but you will not show anyone what is mine. We are not the only ones who live here. Do you understand me? I’d hate to have to blind one of my brothers.”
“You wouldn’t.” But as I search the inky pools of his eyes, I know he’s telling the frightful truth. “They are your brothers. You couldn’t possibly—”
“—It would be hard for me, but I would.” He toys with the collar of my shirt. “They would do the same to me, to anyone who threatened to take advantage of a sight that did not belong to them.”
“That’s barbaric.” The words are strangled in the back of my throat from the terror of his inability to tell lies and the lust clutching my tongue. I don’t know what’s scarier, the fact that I love how afraid I am of him or how much his intensity turns me on.
“It’s the way we are. It’s how we live.” He says it easily, matter-of-factly, as if anyone who doesn’t understand must just accept it as the way things are.
A banging of pots and pans sounds in the kitchen, and I jump.
“It’s only Marie, my private chef,” he explains.
Of course, he has a private chef.
A silver platter is placed in front of me, and I lean back surprised by the presentation. I’m used to either takeout pizza or anything I can pop in the oven to heat. Ramen is good, too. It’s cheap and fast.
“Chicken Alfredo with steamed broccoli with a side of lemon arugula salad.” Marie lifts the lid, and steam billows from the pasta to my nose. As I inhale, my mouth waters from the delicious aromas.
Marie sets down Carmine’s plate next. He gives the older woman a small, genuine smile.
He seems to care for her in his way.
