Page 4 of Gardener for the Mafia

Am I his prey?

He stops so close to me I’m sure I can feel the volcanic heat radiating from him like his six foot six frame is merely a vessel for containing frothing lava, and any second he could erupt and shower me in his heat. I feel my sex twinge and ache and somewhere deep inside me my womb cries out in desire.

Take me. Take me.

I ignore the silly thoughts, bouncing around pointlessly. Of course he’s not interested in me. I need to rein myself in. I’ve never felt like this about a boy, not once in all my eighteen years.

But then, he’s not a boy. He’s a giant, handsome, hotter than Hades man with steel in his hair and unflinching confidence in his eyes.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

I wonder if the heat I’m feeling is me, actually, my center sending surges of sultriness steaming through my body, enveloping me in a warm blanket, as though my body is firing me full of chemicals so that my womb is ready to take what he’ll give me.

Where are these insane thoughts coming from?

Why would I ever dream this man would think of me like that?

He probably has hordes of women throwing themselves at him every night, a whole harem of concubines to select from whenever he wants. He has models and socialites whose sole aim in life is to be rake thin and fulfill his every need.

“I want you to be comfortable here,” he says, his whole body trembling slightly. Or perhaps I’m imagining it. If he’s not angry with my singing, I’m not sure what I did to make him so clearly furious. Perhaps it was something to do with my gardening, but I was only weeding the cracks in the cobblestones. “What’s your name?”

“Lena Jenkins,” I murmur, licking my way too dry lips.

His eyes flit to my tongue. They widen for a brief moment, and then he narrows them back to hunter’s slits.

I curse my disobedient tongue. Not only does it wiggle like crazy and say things it shouldn’t, but now I’ve gone and grossed him out by slurping at my lips when I’m supposed to be demure and respectful.

Oh, and I’m looking at him again. Something seriously is the matter with me this afternoon, jeez.

“I won’t keep you any longer,” he snarls, turning to give me a view of his broad back, his shoulders so wide I’d need three sets of arms to wrap myself around him.

He strides away. I can’t help but let my eyes devour each rippling muscle of his back as he walks, the sun catching the beads of sweat from his workout.

Then he rounds the corner and I stumble back, letting out panting breaths, having to pinch myself to convince my brain that that was real, it really frickin’ happened.

I place my hands on my hips and force myself to stand up straight, sucking in warm summer air and slow my breathing.

Vignettes cycle like hellish temptations through my mind, as I imagine running my hands down his rippled body, feeling what’s underneath those loose fitting shorts, how hard he is and …

I shake my head.

I’ve never thought like this before, these dirty thoughts, but there’s something about Lorenzo DeLuca that’s just busted the doors of my desire wide open like he’s just fired a twelve gauge shotgun of lust at my womb.

Eliza walks around the corner a moment later. She’s tied her hair back with a green bandana folded into a strip and her matching garden gloves on. She’s taken her glasses off to work, her eyes open wide as she approaches. But as she gets closer, I know that her eyes are pinned open in shock.

“What was Mr. DeLuca talking to you about, Lena?” she asks.

“I honestly don’t know,” I whisper. “I thought he was angry about my singing, but then he said he wanted me to be comfortable and I could sing if I wanted.”

The older woman frowns, glancing at where I’ve been working. “Hmm, your work looks good.”

“Is he going to fire me?” I say. “I’ve just moved out of the orphanage and I need the rent money and …”

She steps forward, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Just relax,” she says.

But she can’t tell me that everything’s going to be fine or that he’s not going to fire me, because she doesn’t know. Mr. DeLuca will do whatever he wants whenever he wants. He’s the Don of the most powerful Family in the world. He’s a billionaire.

I’m just an orphan whose birth parents were crack addicts and died when a crack den caught fire when I was ten years old. I have nobody in the whole world and if I’ve made Mr. DeLuca angry for some reason – even if I don’t know what – there’s nothing stopping him from doing the worst to me.

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