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I change the subject. Since we’re playing twenty questions, I see my in. “And why do you have a rose tattoo?”
I hold his gaze unblinking. “You just jump from one thing to another like that?” he asks, before shaking his head. “I bet you know more about the Rossi family rose tattoo than you’re letting on.”
“I just know it means you’re inducted into the family. That you get the tattoo after you’ve taken your vows.”
He smiles. “Very good.”
“What were those vows?”
“I believe I’ve told you most of them already. Now, no more questions. Open your mouth for your food.” There’s a firmer edge to his tone that tells me he isn’t joking. I do what he says.
He takes a thick slice of bacon from the plate and breaks it into bite-sized pieces before he puts one in my mouth. I stifle a moan at the salty, savory taste of it. “Delicious.”
The bacon’s followed by pancakes, and I wash it all down with coffee and a little juice.
“That tastes like it’s freshly squeezed,” I murmur, impressed.
He nods. “They’re overachievers. More?”
I nod, greedily eating my way through most of the food he’s had brought to me. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?” I ask when I sit back, feeling pleasantly full and satisfied.
“I will, when you’re done.”
Ah. He really does like to be in charge, then.
“I’m done.”
I watch him tuck into a platter of food twice as big as mine, and he doesn’t leave a single crumb behind.
“Wow, were you, like, expected to clear your plate as a child or something?”
He shrugs. “It was more like eat while you can before someone else gets it. My mother and grandmother cook enough to feed an army, but with my brothers it’s almost… a competition.”
I feel my lips twitch at that. I’d like to see a Rossi man food fight.
He slides the lid onto the silver platter and stands, stretching. “Alright, babe. You and me. Downstairs we go. Time to get to work.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mario
I take Emma downstairs and can’t hide the elation I feel with her on my arm. Like she belongs here. I’m past denying the fact that I’ve never felt this way before about anyone. And I’ve been with lots of women. I accepted the fact a long time ago that there was no perfect woman for me, no one who would ever make me say “this is the one.” I would live the rest of my life with whoever I was with at the time—love the one you’re with and all that.
And then in walked Emma, with her stunning eyes and sexy voice, witty comebacks and flare of a temper. She keeps me on my toes, and I love how when she finally submits, she relishes it as much as I do. I couldn’t be with a complacent or naturally submissive woman; it isn’t how I’m wired. I need someone with fight in her, someone who can stand her ground and give it right back to me. And I need someone who enjoys the excitement of relinquishing control.
She doesn’t need me to take care of her, but a part of me loves knowing she relishes when I do. When I tuck the blanket around her at night, towel her off after a shower, feed her good food, or hold her. And I know these aren’t just fleeting moments but part of how we relate to one another. How we’re wired.
We meet my brothers and sisters in the Great Hall. They’re almost done with breakfast when Orlando sees us enter the room.
“Mario! Saved you the last of the sfogliatella.”
Nonna’s sfogliatella, sweet, flaky pastry buns filled with anything from apricot preserves to Nutella, is a family favorite.
“Asshole,” Santo mutters, narrowing his eyes at Orlando. “I wanted one. You stole the last one and wrapped it up in a fuckin’ napkin like a granny stealing sweets at the Bingo buffet?”
Emma snorts beside me, but my brothers don’t laugh. We know we’re half a second away from a fistfight.
Orlando’s eyes flash at him. “Not a fuckin’ granny, douchebag. Mario’s been gone for a while, and he loves it. Like you need to stuff your face any more,” he mutters under his breath, his narrowed gaze holding a challenge.
“Boys, boys,” I say, holding up my hands as Santo pushes to his feet and his chair hits the floor. Emma starts beside me. “We already ate an Americano breakfast, capiche? Bacon and pancakes. Thanks for saving it for me, man, but I don’t need sfogliatella.”
“Give it here, then,” Santo growls.
“Say please,” Orlando growls back.
Emma watches with wide eyes as Tavi stands, rips it out of Orlando’s hand, and rolls his eyes. “Sit down, boys. For the love of God, we’re in the company of a lady,” he says.
Emma snorts. “Save it. Seriously, I work with ninety-eight percent men and trust me when I tell you, things will go a lot more smoothly if we start this off accepting that I’m just one of the guys with no special treatment.”
