Page 49 of Owned by the Italian Mafia Boss
She remains silent, and I sigh staring down at her bare ring finger. I hate it. She’s mine, and everyone should know it. I look at my hand; a black band settled to show everyone I’m hers.
Delilah doesn’t know I wear it for her. She thinks it’s all a show, but I happen to like knowing I belong to someone, that I am a part of something other than the job.
I’m hers.
“I’ll be back with the drinks,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “I miss you.” I bend down on her other side, uncaring if anyone sees. I go to reach for her hand,
but I pull away instantly.
Maybe she no longer wants my touch. Christy gasps, but I take that moment to leave, hitting the door on my way out.
I leave the study room and march toward the café. It’s welcoming for the most part, with a fake wood counter and grey chairs around square tables where a few students are seated.
“Excuse me,” I say, cutting through the line, and when people see it is me, they move. “I’ll only be a moment. Thank you.” I ease the fear on the short blonde standing behind me, wide-eyed with her mouth open. I pay attention to the lady behind the counter, probably a student at the school. She’s wearing a purple apron that says Café Books on it. “Four large coffees with three pumps of caramel and drizzle with whipped cream on top. And two shots of espresso.” I hand her a hundred-dollar bill, and the register ding open for her to give me change. “Keep it for the tip.”
“That’s like eighty bucks, dude.” Her black eyeliner is penciled on thick and appears unfriendly.
She must not know me, or she wouldn’t call me dude.
“Fill your car up with gas. Buy beer. I don’t care. Please, get me my coffee.” I twist the wedding bang on my finger, wondering if Delilah would love me in another life. The machines behind the counter steam, buzz, whisk, and the barista pours. I know coffee won’t be enough to earn her forgiveness.
I need her to be patient with me.
I’m trying to be softer, but every attempt feels wrong.
“Here is your coffee. Have a good day,” the clerk says, sounding bored out of her mind. “Next.”
Suddenly nervous, I return to the study room with the coffee. Me. Fucking Carmine Milazzo. A man who kills and takes without question, yet this woman is bringing me to my knees.
I’m close to begging her.
I don’t beg. Not for anything or anyone, but I think I would for her.
Taking a deep breath, I march into the room and place the coffee on the table, handing everyone their own, then slide Delilah hers.
She stops writing on her piece of paper and her eyes catch the ring on my finger. With a shake of her head, the chair squeaks across the floor as she bolts from the room.
“Delilah!” I call after her. I start to follow, but Ethan stands to block me.
Without question, without hesitation, I slam him against the wall, pull my gun from the waistband of my pants and press it under his chin.
I cock it so he can hear the bullet slide into the chamber.
“Oh, fuck.” He tries to turn his head away from the gun, but I’m stronger than he is, and I keep him locked in place.
“Jesus,” Christy says, from behind me.
“I will fucking kill you right here and now if you try to get in my way again. I warned you once. I don’t give warnings. Delilah is your friend, so I’ve made an exception. Try to stop me again, and I’ll make sure I spend the rest of my life begging for her forgiveness.” I shove the barrel harder against his chin before I uncock the gun and tuck it back into my waistband. Then I go after Delilah.
I’m not sure where she went.
I pull out my phone and track her. She’ll catch on to my little GPS soon, so I’ll have to be more creative in hiding a location device on her. Perhaps in a necklace or her ring.
I head downstairs to the basement, where we had our first heated kiss. I quicken my footsteps, following the direction the GPS is telling me to go. I notice a bathroom in the corner. I push my phone into my pocket and open the door, hearing small sniffles from the stall.
“There’s someone in here,” she says, her voice echoing off the walls.
I lock the door behind me, and my Italian leather loafers thud against the disgusting tile of the bathroom floor. Standing in front of the stall, I test the door to see if it is open, and it is, so I pull it, revealing Delilah sitting on the toilet and wiping her eyes with the toilet paper.
