Page 133 of My Mafia King

Gianni walks me to the table, pulls out the chair for me, and retreats smoothly after reassuring me Damaso will be with me shortly.

I order the appetizers.

I haven’t had lunch, so I unfold my napkin, place it over my lap, and as soon as the food arrives, I start eating.

Damaso catches me with my mouth full and apologizes––which is unexpected––before taking a seat across from me.

Moving his eyes down, he takes me in, and I detect a hint of admiration in his gaze.

I press the napkin against the corner of my lips and swallow.

“I’m sorry. I was hungry.”

“Don’t worry,” he says before signaling the staff to bring the rest of the food to the table.

Before long, we indulge in delicious food.

Spaghetti with anchovies, roasted red pepper, fresh cherry tomatoes, cappers, and nuts. Risotto with pesto and nuts, and grilled meat with roasted vegetables.

I don’t touch the meat as I’m not a huge meat eater, but I go for the dessert. Chocolate tart.

The food is a nice treat––I have to say––and I do my best to eat like a lady. Take small bites and chew slowly, but the hungry version of me is too impatient for that.

“How do you like it?” he asks, observing me.

I straighten my back and try to swallow before answering.

“The food?” I murmur, my eyes hovering over him.

The man looks fantastic. I don’t know if he does it on purpose, but he makes me lose my train of thought every time I look in his direction.

He seems genuinely fascinated with me, and we spend increasingly more time alone with each other.

He also seems different when he’s with me, which I understand. He must project a certain image when he’s with others so people don’t mess with him.

I’m not saying he’s not scary. Or frighteningly powerful. He is one hundred percent that man.

I studied his demeanor and the way he leads and works the room. He is intransigent, pays attention to the details, and nothing goes past him.

He sanctions everything that needs to be sanctioned, and there is no room for error with him.

All that gives me a better understanding of our dynamic and makes me appreciate him even more.

“The food is excellent. The best I’ve had in a while.”

A soft smile tilts his lips, erasing the stern expression on his face.

I drink him in while he tips his gaze down, bringing his drink to his lips and avoiding my stare.

“What’s the problem with your father?” he asks, and I’m not ready to give him an honest answer.

I refused to talk about my father in the past, and I’m not more comfortable doing it now.

“I know you don’t want to talk about him, but I’d like to know.”

His voice is calm and firm, suggesting he expects an answer.

How could I give him one?

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