He returns his attention to his breakfast, taking away all that smolder and restoring my ability to breathe. “I’m insulted,cara mia. If I’d have fucked you last night, I guarantee you’d still be begging me for more this morning.”
The ego of this man is seriously off the charts. With a face and a body like his, not to mention all the power of the Andriani-Revello families in his back pocket, I can’t blame him.
I snort anyway, not about to feed into it. “On a scale of one to ten, one being impossible and ten being highly likely, I give that a zero.”
Lorenzo cracks a second egg and shoots me a heated look over his shoulder. “Your scale lies.”
My pussy clenches. He’s cocky and smug. He’s my kidnapper. He’s a Mafia enforcer. I shouldn’t be feeling anything but extreme aversion. I shove the straw of my smoothie into my mouth and distract myself by downing the rest of it. The sooner I’m on my way, the better. Now that the wedding formalities are over, I want to get back to my apartment so I can forget this ever happened.
I hop off the stool. “As much as I’d love to stick around and listen to more of your deluded ramblings, I’ve got to get out of here.”
He pulls a plate out of one of the cupboards and effortlessly slides an egg onto it, sunny side up. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The other egg joins the first. Is there anything he can’t do perfectly? How annoying.
“Home,” I announce brightly, smoothing down my skirt.
I need an Advil and a nap.
He sets his plate on the counter. “Not to that little shitbox you call an apartment,cara.”
I’m sure my apartment pales in comparison to wherever he calls home, but it’s mine, I worked for it, and I love it. Even if it does smell like everyone’s dinner and mildew and the air conditioning has a fifty-fifty chance of working on any given summer day.
I cross my arms over my chest. “It’s not a shitbox, first of all.”
He stuffs a mitt on one hand and opens the oven. “It’s not your home any longer either.”
I try not to notice how great his ass looks in his jeans when he bends over to retrieve the tray of bacon and fail miserably.
“Of course it’s my home,” I counter. “It’s where I live. And second of all, my name is Katya.”
“Did you miss the clause about us living together?” he asks, completely ignoring my second point as he slides the tray of sizzling, fragrant bacon onto the stovetop. “Because I didn’t, and I’m not about to live in a fucking closet.”
Damn it. He has me there. I did miss that clause, and mostly because I had reached the point of saturation, and my nerves hadn’t been capable of taking more.
I bite my lip. “What did it say?”
He gives me a smug look. “So you didn’t read it.”
Pieces of bacon make their way onto the plate with the eggs. Is the man eating half the pack himself?
“My life was imploding,” I defend. “I couldn’t make it to the finish line.”
He frowns, piling on more bacon. “I wouldn’t call marrying me an implosion.”
“I would. Do you think I wanted any of this?”
“Do you thinkIdid?” He turns and stalks toward the island, depositing his filled plate there.
We glare at each other, anger sparking in the air between us.
“Bad news for you,cara mia.” He stabs into his egg, sending sunny yellow yolk oozing everywhere. “You’re living with me now.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to say no. You’re my wife, and the safest place for you is where I am.” He picks up a piece of bacon and dips it into the yolk, then takes a bite.
Alarm bells go off in my head.
