Page 35 of Owned by the Italian Mafia Boss
“Then you’ll come to bed?” she asks, pressing a soft kiss against my lips. There’s no urgency or lust like there was in the library. It’s a long, tender peck, and I find myself being pulled into her, cupping the back of her head to apply more pressure.
I break the kiss, then press my forehead to hers before standing. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m a different man at night now, knowing she’s in my bed. “And then, I’ll come to bed.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
“Go on, lie back down.” I ease her back, fluffing the pillow under her head and bringing the blanket to her chin. “Rest. I’ll be in soon.”
“Be careful,” she mutters, eyes already falling shut. “You’re not as bad as you think you are.” Her whispered words come out slower, as if she’s losing the energy to speak.
“You’re wrong,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed and hanging my head. My elbows are on my knees, and exhaustion settles in my bones. “I’m worse,” I correct her, but she doesn’t say anything in return. Her steady, even breaths tell me she’s fast asleep.
With one last look at the woman who I’m forcing to marry me, I stroll out of the room, closing the door as quietly as I can.
Victor is standing on the other side, his back against the wall, stoic and at attention.
“Nothing happens to her; do you understand me? If I come back and she’s injured, I’m going to kill you,” I warn him.
He doesn’t blink or flinch. Victor nods. “She’ll be safe, Mr. Milazzo.”
“She better be.” I don’t trust anyone else with her, not even my best men. I will only know she’s truly safe as long as she is by my side.
When I get to the end of the hall, Gianni, Ari, and Matias are waiting for me. They are my most trusted. They are my inner circle, but I try my best to care for anyone working for me.
“Where is he?” I ask, renewed energy coiling through my soul like a serpent.
“Here.” Gianni gestures with his chin toward the couch.
Nicky, Alex, and a few others surround me, men who are my runners, for the most part, delivering messages, figuring out trade spots, cleaning crew, etc.
I step into the living room and walk around the couch, surprised when I see a kid who can’t be older than nineteen.
“What the fuck is this?” I point to the teenager sitting on my couch, half beaten and pale. “I said I wanted insight. I wanted proof. This is not proof.”
“The kid is the proof,” Ari says, flipping a switchblade in his hand. “And we didn’t do that to him. We found him like that. He was on our way when we were was heading to the docks. He says he has intel to help us move in and stake that territory once and for all.”
I crouch and tilt my head, staring at the kid who has his arms wrapped around himself. His eyes are cast on the floor, and he won’t look at anyone. He’s soaking wet from the rain outside, quietly pelleting against the roof.
And he’s on my fucking couch.
Wet.
I’ll deal with it later.
“Do you know where you are?” I ask him, and he remains silent, still staring at the floor. “Look at me,” I bite, my patience wearing thin. “I said fucking look at me!”
Finally, he lifts his head. The whites of his eyes are red from the abuse he took before coming here. He’s shivering with goosebumps along his skin, and he rubs his hands up and down his arms. I snap my fingers. “Get him a blanket and start a fire.”
Nicky tosses the blanket over the kid’s shoulders, and the whoosh behind me with the heat tells me Ari has started the fire.
The kettle on the stove whistles. Marie is in the kitchen making tea. She pours honey into the steaming mug and stirs it, the ceramic and metal clinking together.
Ari chuckles behind me, and Nicky smiles then ducks his head when he sees my annoyed expression. I’m trying to interrogate someone, and Marie is making tea.
She holds the mug out in front of her and carefully moves her feet, so she doesn’t spill the scalding liquid.
I rub my temples and check the time.
It’s two in the morning. I wanted to get this interrogation done and bury the body—if I needed to—before three.
