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He walked over and reached out, plucking the weapon from me. I took a step back as he held it in his hands like an extension of himself, like he’d been born with his tiny fingers on a trigger.
“Let me make something clear,” he said. “You touch my gun again, you better plan on killing me with it.”
I took a hard breath then narrowed my eyes at him, my fists balling up. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means, you don’t touch a person’s weapon, no matter what.”
“You just left it lying out there. You left a freaking gun lying around, for no reason.”
“I thought that was better than bringing it with me to the grocery store.”
“I thought you said it was uncomfortable.”
“It is,” he said, pulled the slide back, a bullet popping out. He caught it, put it in his pocket, slid the gun into his waistband. “But apparently I’ll have to get used to it.”
I opened my mouth, worked my jaw, shut it again. He stood there staring at me, his shirt tight against his muscular chest, his dark eyes intense and hard.
I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
“Come on,” he said, turning away. “Sit down. Have some wine.”
I hesitated, still lingering in the doorway, as he walked back to the stove. He flipped the chicken, stirred the pasta, then uncorked a bottle of red and poured two glasses.
I walked over to the light metal, thinly padded chairs, took a seat, and let him place a glass in front of me.
I didn’t touch it.
“How long am I going to be here?” I asked.
“I have no clue,” he said. “Honestly, the Don didn’t tell me much.”
“You mean my uncle.”
“Uncle, Don, sure,” he said, waving the wooden spoon. “You’ve got to understand, I’m just the muscle.”
“Muscle,” I said with a little aggressive snort. “Something like that.”
He looked over his shoulder, eyebrow arched, smile on his handsome lips. “You don’t like my muscles? Don’t think I’m big enough?”
“I just mean—”
“Nah, you think I’m big enough,” he said and laughed to himself. “You’re trying to bait me into getting pissed off.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Fun,” he said, shrugging, stirring the pasta. “Boredom. I don’t know. You’re angry about your situation, and I’m an easy target.”
“Maybe I just don’t like you fundamentally.”
“Fundamentally,” he said and laughed again. “Yeah, maybe that’s it. So you hate all mafia types?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“This must be a nightmare for you, then,” he said. “Getting all that mafia money.”
“You have no clue.”
“How much did the old gangster give you?” he asked. “Must be a lot, if the Don’s keeping you under lock and key.”
“Is that really a question you want to ask me?”
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed and sharp. For a second, I got the impression that he wasn’t just the idiot mafia musclehead I thought he was.
But then he turned back to the food, took the chicken out of the pan, put it on a paper towel-lined plate.
“Probably not,” he said. “But I’m guessing it’s a lot anyway. Maybe something else, since I doubt the Don cares all that much about straight cash. The family has cash in spades.”
“Good for you,” she said.
“None of it’s mine, though,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, I get paid very, very well, but the real money, the big foreign bank accounts, the investments, they’re all upper management. They’re all the Don, his underboss, those guys.”
“And you’re just a grunt.”
“Poor me, right?”
“I don’t know, you don’t seem to mind.”
He laughed a little, placed a couple slices of mozzarella over each piece of chicken, and put them in the broiler. He stirred the pasta then took it to the sink to drain. When he was finished, he plated the pasta in small bowls, poured a little jarred sauce over top, grated some cheese, added a touch of oil, a little pepper, and nodded to himself.
“Didn’t have time to do a real sauce,” he said. “But good enough for now.” He put the bowl in front of me then returned to the oven. “Hope you’re hungry.”
I felt my stomach rumbling, staring at the pasta. “I could eat.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “Get started.”
I took a bite, and as soon as I tasted the delicious cheese and sauce, I knew I was screwed. I took a few more bites, sipped the wine, and couldn’t help myself. By the time he had the chicken finished, plated, and on the table, I’d finished almost the entire bowl.
He sat down across from me and gave me this strange smile, like he was proud of me for eating my most of my meal. I glanced at him then looked away as I cut a piece of chicken and ate it.
“Whoa,” I said.
“Good?”
“This is really good.”
“They didn’t have my normal stuff at the grocery place,” he said. “So I had to improvise a little bit. I like a different brand of cheese and breadcrumbs, and the chicken was a little too thick, but I think I managed.”
