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I wonder if he’s gaslighting me. I wonder if he’s trying to convince me to put aside anything I’ve ever thought before and believe him. But still, he’s got a point. Maybe… maybe his family isn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe I don’t have to betray my life’s purpose to work with them, and I could find a way—somehow—to still bring down the people I need to.
But that’s a thought I need to table right now. I can’t lose my sense of focus, my life’s goal. I can’t lose sight of the big prize because some hot guy who knows how to manipulate my body says the right words.
“Maybe you do,” I concede. A part of me wants to tell him why I took the job that I did, why I’m hell-bent on seeking justice. But no… not now. We’re too new. And telling him all of that would be confiding to him in a way I’m not sure I’m ready to do. “But I don’t know, Mario. I’m new here. I’m here against my will,” I remind him, though my tone’s gentle. “We’re here for a reason, and we need to stick to that.”
He gives me a slow smile as he caresses my shoulder. I watch as his thumb traces my collarbone and shiver at the touch. I find myself leaning involuntarily into him.
“Hungry?” he says, changing the subject completely.
I nod. “Starving.”
“Good. I’ve ordered food brought up. Let’s eat.” I go to rise, but he shakes his head. “I’ll get the food. I’d like you to go sit at the table, please.” He nods his head toward the dining room table. I stand and walk over to it. The scents of cinnamon, coffee, and bacon I smelled earlier are stronger as he retrieves several silver trays from outside the door.
“Wow, so you just… order food. Like this is our residence, and you have staff that cooks for you—”
“Our staff does many things, but cooking isn’t one of them. Nonna and Mama do all the cooking.”
“All of it?”
“Yes. It’s the best, most efficient way of making sure nothing we eat is poisoned, and they’re territorial about feeding their family.”
“Ahh. Alright, then. Of course you wouldn’t want to be poisoned,” I mutter to myself because it’s only one more weird way in which the Rossi family is nothing like any other family I’ve ever met.
“Select staff brings the food to us when we request it, though, yeah,” he says. “Sometimes, duty calls and we’re not able to eat with the rest of the family.”
Duty calls. I wonder exactly what “duty” he might call me, or better yet, what “duty” he’d be performing that would prevent him from joining his family for a meal.
He places a silver tray in the center of the table and lifts the lid. Mmm. My stomach rumbles with hunger. I swallow hard at the sight of golden pancakes beside pats of creamy butter and silver jugs of maple syrup, thick slices of crisp bacon, and on another platter, roasted apples in cinnamon. There’s a carafe with coffee and a smaller jug of cream, plates, silverware, and napkins.
“Looks so good,” I mutter. “You eat like this every day?”
He shrugs. “More or less. Sometimes we have simpler breakfasts, but when we have guests, they like to pull out all the stops.”
“You have guests?” My senses are once again on high alert.
He gives me that lopsided grin I haven’t seen since the first night we met. “You, doll.”
“Oh.” I feel my cheeks flush. Just to give myself something to do, I reach for a fork so I can put some food on my plate, when he clears his throat. I look up at him, surprised.
“What?”
“I’ll feed you.” There’s that warning look in his eyes again, the piercing look that tells me he’s testing me.
“Pancakes are a sloppy meal to feed someone…” I say, unconvinced this is a wise decision.
He shrugs one of his shoulders. “I’ll be careful.”
I’m not sure why those words alone make my belly melt. Something about him being “careful” with me, I guess. I swallow hard.
“Alright, doll. You like pancakes?”
“Love ‘em.”
“Apples?”
“Yep.”
“Bacon?”
“Who doesn’t love bacon?”
He grins. “Crazy people. Maybe vegetarians.”
“Jesus, you think you know someone…”
His chuckle skates right up my spine and dances across my shoulders.
I watch as he carefully moves two large pancakes onto his plate that’s so big it basically resembles a platter. My mouth waters when he slathers butter on top, then drizzles maple syrup liberally over both of them.
“Ooh, is that the real stuff?”
He nods. “We’ve got friends of ours in Vermont that keep us well supplied. It’s a sort of barter, one might say.”
“Oh? What do you trade back in return?”
“The best wine from my family’s vineyard in Tuscany.”
“Ahh.” I file this all away in the catalog of information about the Rossis in my mind. I half expected him to say something like “illegal firearms” or something badass and menacing like “protection.”
