Page 80 of Brutal Devil
I glance down at myself. I’m not skinny by any means. I try to stay in shape, but I could also lose a few pounds. And when I say a few, I mean a good twenty. I’m a curvy girl. Always have been. Always will be.
“I can eat the other half for dinner,” I decide, compromising.
“You’ll finish it because no one makes better lasagna thanZiaMaria,” he says confidently as he closes the door. “Hey Basil, turn the microwave on for two minutes.”
“Turning the microwave on for two minutes,” says the disembodied voice of the mobster dungeon’s robot butler.
If I hadn’t been here myself and witnessed all this firsthand, I’d never have believed it.
“Where is Priest now?” I ask, changing the subject.
Saint shoots me an apologetic look. “I don’t know.”
“You can’t tell me,” I infer, irritated. “Who the hell am I going to tell? I’m trapped in a gangster lair, and I’m not even allowed to have my phone.”
Saint doesn’t answer, leaving me to further fume.
“So let me get this straight. I’m supposed to be his wife, but I’m not allowed to know where he is on any given day or what he’s doing. And I’m expected to be okay with this?”
Saint leans a hip against the counter and faces me, arms crossed. “You know the life, Luna. You grew up in it.”
“I grew up insulated from it. Leo was the heir. I was a girl, meant to be a pretty prop, no real use to the cause.”
Like my father always said, a woman’s worth is between her legs.
And he sold me for it the first chance he got.
But as cruel as he was, and for all his faults, I still can’t get past everything that’s happened. Him dying in my arms.
“What about your mother?” Saint asks. “She must have prepared you, knowing one day you’d marry into one of the families. It’s the way of our world.”
I swallow against a lump of sadness rising in my throat. “My mom died when I was eleven. Not exactly the age for planning future mafioso weddings.”
“Damn,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, Luna.”
I take another sip of water, steadying myself. “Fuck cancer, right?”
“What kind?”
“Breast cancer.” I sniff, trying to keep the tears at bay.
My mother was different. She wasn’t like my father. Their marriage was an arranged one, and she always paid him the utmost respect. But my memories are those of a kid. Foggy and indistinct. I thought she loved him, but I’m not sure my father was capable of loving anyone. And I don’t know why someone as kind and good as my mother would have had tender feelings for a self-absorbed, heartless monster like my father.
The microwave beeps.
“Dinner is served, milord,” says the disembodied robot voice.
I snort at that, the heaviness of the moment effectively broken. “Basil is on point.”
Saint winks at me. “I taught him everything he knows.”
“Did you name him too?”
“Nope.” He turns back to the microwave, opening it and pulling out a steaming plate of lasagna. “Basil’s actually a prototype from a start-up that Scorpion convinced us we should invest in. He came with the name.”
“You called, sir?” asks the same voice.
“Hey Basil, go fuck yourself,” Saint says, bringing my lasagna toward me.
