Page 78 of Dirty Mafia King
Every second we wait is money lost.
So what’s behind the delay?
Something’s up, I can feel it. Perhaps a surprise trip south is in order? Discover what’s distracting Dante, if it’s Hollywood-worthy pussy or something else.
“Oh,” Alessia gasps. “I didn’t hear you enter the kitchen.”
“That was some racket you were making,” I mutter.
She blushes.
I feel like the fucking Grinch. “Did you make lamb?”
Her smile is genuine. “It turned out better this time.” She gestures to the dining room. “I set a plate for you.”
“I’ll eat in the kitchen.”
“Okay. Hold on.” She brushes by me into the adjacent room, then returns with my great-great-grandmother’s china balanced in one hand and a tall burning taper in the other.
I snatch the candle from her before she burns my house down, and place it on the island while she arranges everything before me.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she murmurs. “I polished the silver.”
Madonna mia. How long did that take her? The forks, spoons, knives, and serving utensils have been tarnished, and therefore unused, for decades.
Next, she sets salad on the island, but my attention falls on the antipasto platter she’s arranged. A selection of meats, salami, prosciutto, spicy ham, cheeses, olives, artichokes, roasted red peppers, and deviled eggs.
The eggs are filled with a creamy yolk mixture.
I fucking love deviled eggs.
Our eyes meet.
She shrugs. “Freido said they’re your favorite.”
Fucking terrific. My most vicious bodyguard / personal assistant has been gossiping.
“Aside from the lamb, I prepared all your favorites as a thank-you for your generosity. I love my study. I also appreciate the professional golf lessons and hope to continue—”
“Not going to happen.”
Her eyebrows rise in surprise.
I don’t offer further explanation. Truth is, the idea of that stronzo’s hands infuriates me.
“He was helpful.”
“He’s lucky he made it out of here alive.”
She stares at me, confused.
“You going to argue with me or serve me?” Because any further discussion about that asshole and I’ll hurl the wine decanter into the wall.
Her teeth drag across her bottom lip. “Serve you salad? And antipasto?”
“You heard me.”
Drawing a disappointed breath, she hurries away. What did she expect, a romantic dinner?
