Page 31 of Owned By the Italian Mafia Don

“Did you not read the entire contract, Tesoro?” he tugs me into the room and closes the door, untying his tie.

“What do you think you’re doing? I’m not having sex with you right now. Contract or not. I’ve only known you a few hours.”

“It’s my room. My bathroom. I’m taking a shower.” He begins to unbutton his shirt and I hurry to him, grasping his hands to stop him from undressing.

“Right, let’s go back to that. You said this was my room.”

He lifts a perfectly groomed brow, all thick and full with a shape most women would kill for. “No,” he says slowly. “I told you the doors at the end of the hall. Which is my room.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Do I even have a room?”

“You’re standing in it.”

The twisted, conniving smirk on his full lips pisses me off just as much as it turns me on.

“You knew what you were doing. You son of a—”

He quirks that damn brow again and a part of me wants to shave it off, so it isn’t a distraction.

I zip my lips, remembering our deal about cursing at one another. “You planned this.”

“Married couples sleep in the same room, Tesoro. They share a bed. That’s what we will be doing.”

“It isn’t enough I signed your contract, but now you’re going to make me play the part? I thought this was a business transaction? I will go to a different room, live a separate life from you, get pregnant whenever we decide to go to the clinic, and then we can move on with our lives,” I explain, suddenly tired and a pounding behind my eyes starts.

I’m defeated.

And I don’t know why I feel like I have to fight him every step of the way. I know I shouldn’t. I understand the mess I’ve gotten myself into but now I feel lost. I don’t like feeling that I have no control over my life right now. Everything is spiraling.

I don’t know how to act around him. Does he want me to press his shirts, so they are wrinkle-free? Kiss him in the mornings before he goes and tortures a guy who does whatever men like him do for work? Does he want me to put on an apron, cook him dinner, and ask him how his day is? This is insanity. Surely, he doesn’t expect that.

“I know we have a lot to overcome,” he begins, grabbing my shoulders gently as he stands in front of me. “I know this situation isn’t easy for you.”

“Isn’t easy?” I say with an exasperated breath, stepping away from him. “It’s impossible. You want to play house. You want me to play your wife. You want me to be this person that doesn’t exist. If you wanted a wife so bad, if you wanted someone to share your bed, have your children, share your hopes and, dreams, cook you dinner, or whatever the hell you want, then that is what you should have been looking for instead of settling with me.” I’m not angry anymore.

I’ve surpassed that. I’m to the point where I’m defeated and I’m accepting this reality; I am, but I can’t just jump into this with a smile on my face. I can’t.

I won’t.

I know making the best of any situation is what we are all told to do, but I’ve never been like that. If something is bad in life, I tend to wallow in it for a few days, needing to accept a new change, and then I come around to the new reality.

I’m not perfect. I’m not happy-go-lucky. I don’t look at the glass half-full because for most of my entire life, it has always been empty.

So being positive right now is hard and if I were to look at the positives the list would consist of two things.

One, he’s so handsome. I’ve never seen anyone as gorgeous as Mr. Milazzo is.

Two, my body wants him so bad, I ache all over, even if my mind hates it.

“You’re right,” he says, going back to the task of unbuttoning his shirt.

My eyes fall to his chest, smooth olive skin appearing the more he unbuttons. I can already see the definition of his pecs. He’s gorgeous.

Hatefully, so.

“But I saw an opportunity for you and for me and like the businessman I am, I applied it. I can only hope you’ll try and get to know me and maybe this can grow into something other than a business transaction.”

I hold my breath, wondering why he’d even want that. “But you could have anyone? Why me? Why someone with so much baggage?”

---