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"We’ll act as husband and wife; surely, that should be enough."
"Do you think my nonna is going to let us off without a church wedding?"
"If you think I’m going to agree to that, you have another think coming," I snap back.
"Are you saying no?"
Yes.
Yes.
I shake my head. "Anything else you’re not telling me about this arrangement?"
To my right, the Bialetti begins to bubble as the steam rises through the funnel. The espresso must be bubbling over and into the carafe. I don’t turn away from him to check it, though. Instead, I hold his gaze as he raises a shoulder.
"Maybe, maybe not." He smirks. "My prerogative."
Anger flares through my veins. My heart thuds in my chest. How dare he treat me like this? Damn it, I’m a qualified doctor. I went to London to study and survived the winters there. Hell, I survived years of residency, not to mention a stint in the ER. I have saved the lives of people, and now this … this … ass treats me like I’m worth nothing. All of my senses hone in on him. Only when my palm connects with his face do I realize that I’ve slapped him. Oh hell. I stare at the fingerprints that bloom on his cheek. Shit, this is not good, not good at all.
Anger thrums off of him. I take a step back, and his gaze intensifies.
"That was a mistake, Flower," he drawls.
"Don’t call me that," I hiss back.
"I’ll call you what I want, when I want, and you’ll answer to it."
"No."
"Yes." He lowers his voice to a hush, "Come here." He crooks a finger.
I shake my head.
He glares at me, and my stomach twists. Jesus, why did I have to antagonize this man? Why couldn’t I simply agree to whatever he wants? After all, the path of least resistance is the best in these situations, isn’t it? And then… What would set me apart from my mother and the rest of the women married to Mafia men, those who allow them to walk all over them and bear their suffering in silence? I’m not like them. I am not. It’s why I trained to be a doctor, so I could break out of this cycle. So I could ensure that my younger sister could have a better life than as part of a Mafia clan.
And now this … this asshole thinks he can simply order me around? He says he’ll set me free if I do what he wants, but what guarantee do I have of that?
"Don’t make me wait." He holds my gaze, and I can’t stop myself from being drawn into those dark eyes. Bottomless, fathomless, impenetrable. Any signs of vulnerability I thought I’d seen in them are now gone. His eyes are flat, the look in them almost cruel. It’s a relief, actually. I don’t want to think of this guy as having a heart or emotions of any kind. I need to see him for what he really is. A Mafia guy, someone who likely kills for a living, someone on the wrong side of the law, someone who clearly doesn’t have a conscience. If he did, he wouldn’t manipulate me in this way. Wouldn’t take me for granted and treat me like I’m an object to be possessed.
His gaze narrows on me, and he lowers his voice to a hush, "I won’t ask again." A shiver runs down my back.
"Now," he snaps.
My feet hit the floor, and I close the short distance between us. Goddamn it, why do I feel compelled to obey his command? I stand in front of him and tip my chin up. I will not be cowed by him. I will not.
"You will do as I say, understand?"
I scowl.
"You feel me, Flower?"
Whatever. I curl my fingers into fists at my sides so I don’t slap him again. I need to play it smart, just until I figure out a way out of here.
He peers into my eyes, and maybe whatever he sees there satisfies him, for he jerks his chin. "I'll send someone to mend the front door, and I'll have my men stand guard outside until then." He turns and stalks out of the kitchen.
"Wait," I call out. "I made enough espresso for both of us."
"You have it," he says without turning around. "You’re going to need that and more to see you through the next few weeks."
