“I did manage to feed you at the cabin, didn’t I?”
True, but I assumed that was necessity. “You kept me alive. I thought most of what you fed me came from your aunt.”
HisZiaMaria is a lovely woman. I met her briefly in the whirlwind of new faces yesterday. She swept me into a hug and told me I was just what her Lorenzo needed. I didn’t agree with her, but I was too polite to argue.
“MyZiataught me everything I know when it comes to cooking.” He grins.
Andthe dimples are back.
I look away from him, bringing the mug back to my lips. “The two of you are close, then?”
“She’s like a mother to us all. Better than the one we had.”
There’s more to the story there, but asking feels too personal. I know Antonella skipped out on Lorenzo and his brothers and raised her twin daughters—Lorenzo’s half sisters—in secret, only showing back up in the brothers’ lives a few weeks ago. But that’s all.
My gaze slides back to find him drinking his coffee, looking contemplative, his jaw hard.
“You’re fortunate you have someone like her in your life,” I say, thinking about how Svetlana is that person for me.
She’s the only one I’ve ever been able to count on and trust, who has had my best interests at heart. And that’s why I leaped into this marriage. I have to protect her from Misha at all costs.
“I am,” he agrees, then turns to the oven and opens the door, checking on his bacon. The scent of it hits me like a wall. Andalthough I rarely allow myself more than a bite of the stuff, I have to admit that I wouldn’t mind tucking into some right about now. Maybe grease is what I need.
As if I blurted my inner monologue out loud, Lorenzo shoots me a look over his shoulder. “Having second thoughts about your green slime,cara mia?”
“It’s not slime.” To prove my point, I pick it up and take a long sip. “And it’s delicious. You can keep your heart attack to yourself.”
He shudders and closes the oven door. “If you say so, but you don’t know what you’re missing.”
There’s a leather-topped stool at the kitchen island, and I slide on it, settling in to drink my smoothie and watch my new husband make breakfast.
I have zero idea what I’m supposed to do, how I’m supposed to react. Everything is new and, if I’m honest, completely terrifying. Part of me wants to run out the door and never look back, but I also know that’s impossible. I’m just as trapped as I was when he kidnapped me, only this time, I don’t have a chain on my ankle and I’m not cuffed to a bed. I can’t bear to think about what would happen if I refuse to do Misha’s bidding.
Lorenzo gets out a frying pan, setting it on a burner before he goes to the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs.
“If your brother’s chef made me a smoothie, why didn’t he make you breakfast?” I can’t help asking.
“I like to cook breakfast. There’s something about making shit with your own hands that’s a highly satisfying way to start the day,” he answers, his reasoning surprising me.
And forcing my attention back to his big, capable hands and long, inked fingers. I can only imagine what else he’s done with those same hands. All the sex and violence he’s visited upon others. The thought makes me strangely jittery.
Probably the coffee. I’m used to monsters. Living with one is nothing new, even if it’s been quite a few years since I left the home I once shared with my brothers and father.
The propane burner lights with a whoosh, and Lorenzo starts warming the pan, spraying in some olive oil. Then he opens the egg carton and extracts one. I watch as he gently cracks it. I’m suddenly desperate to know what happened between us last night. So desperate that I can’t contain myself.
“Did we have sex?” I blurt.
His head swivels to me, his face blank. “What do you think?”
His eyes are anything but neutral. They’re bright blue, burning into me.
I take another fortifying sip of smoothie. “Obviously, I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up in a grin. “If we had, I promise you this, you wouldn’t have had to ask. But no. Drunk, homicidal Russian ballerinas aren’t my type.”
That stings even though it shouldn’t. Because tattooed, dangerous, muscle-bound Mafiosos shouldn’t be my type either. But everything about him sets my blood on fire. I’ve never been so keenly aware of a man, so inescapably attracted, even if every part of my rational mind is throwing up caution lights and warning signs.
“So we didn’t, then,” I reiterate, just to make sure.
