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Roman lifts his gaze. “Language, Drew. You’re in the company of a lady.”
“Sorry,” Andrew says, stuffing his mouth with beans. “Mm. This is great. Did you add bacon, Evie?”
“Yes,” I say. “Then I mashed it with potato and onions.”
Roman cuts a piece of meat and brings the fork to his mouth. I can’t help but notice the shape of his lips, the perfect arch at the top and the fuller bottom one. The light that filters through the window highlights the copper-brown color of his short-trimmed beard. He’s too easy on the eyes.
He watches me as he chews and swallows it down with wine before asking, “Where did you learn to cook?” Waving his fork over the dishes, he adds, “I thought you have staff for this.”
“We do,” I say. “But…” I grope for an excuse, coming up empty-handed.
“But cooking is part of the skills a professional wife needs to acquire?” he asks with a mocking tone that’s infused with a tad of hostility.
He obviously doesn’t like the idea of Evie marrying Nathan. Why, I can’t fathom. He hates all the Warrens, enough to want to spoil Evie’s chances of making a good marriage, but what does he care who she’s supposed to marry or if she’ll make a model mafia wife who can cook?
Mateo coughs.
“My mom taught me.” It’s not a lie.
“To cook for your future husband,” Roman says, taking another drink of wine.
I look away. “I enjoy it.”
“The food is good,” Mateo says, his tone placating.
“Thanks,” I reply under my breath.
For the rest of the meal, they talk business—legal business, that is. I pick at my food while listening with one ear.
“What do you think?” Roman asks.
I realize he’s addressing me when the kitchen goes quiet.
“Sorry.” I sit up straighter. “What?”
“I asked what you think about investing more in gold,” he says. “As an economist, you must follow the stock exchange.”
Averting my eyes, I hop from my chair. “I’m not up to speed with the current affairs.”
“Of course not,” Roman says. “How can you be? The wedding arrangements must eat up all your time. That’s mostly what mafia princesses do.”
What’s his problem? Telling him to go fuck himself is on the tip of my tongue when Mateo puts down his glass harder than necessary.
“Maybe you should go easy on the wine, Roman,” Mateo says.
Glancing between Roman and me, Andrew says, “If nobody minds, I’ll have seconds.”
“What comes after the wedding, Evie?” Roman asks as if Mateo and Andrew haven’t spoken. “What’s supposed to occupy your hours? The baby shower? Then redecorating?”
I’m itching to smack the condescending smile from his handsome face. “Don’t you dare judge me, not for what’s outside of my control.”
Mateo makes his voice hard. “For fuck’s sake, Roman. Enough.”
Turning my back on them, I carry my empty plate to the sink. I don’t care that Andrew is still eating. I can’t let them see the shame on my face. I’m embarrassed that I haven’t finished school. My mom took me out because Bell told her I’d get a better education at the finishing school. If only she knew. Although, I guess she did, and she still sent me.
A large hand falls on my arm.
I look up.
Roman hovers over me. “Leave the dishes. You cooked. We’ll clean.”
“It’s fine. I prefer to tidy up my own mess.”
“What I said…” His jaw bunches. “I was out of line.”
“No,” I say, pulling free. “You’re right. Bell—My father doesn’t allow the women in our household to work.” I add with a chuckle designed to mask my hurt, “He does however believe in a proper education.”
Roman drags a hand through his hair, messing up the longer strands in a way that shouldn’t look sexy. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” I say.
“Evie,” Roman says with a warning in his tone.
“Everything you said is true.” I lift my chin to meet his gaze. “Women are just commodities, right?”
Roman points a finger at me. “You don’t want to go there with me.”
“Why?” Past caring, I taunt, “Because you’re a hypocrite? Because you’re guilty of the same? Wait. You’re not capable of guilt.”
He’s on me so fast I don’t have time to blink. Wrapping his fingers around my upper arm, he yanks me to him. The plate and cutlery fall from my hand, the plate breaking down the middle and the sharp sound of metal echoing in the space as the knife and fork hit the tiles.
“You have no idea how good you have it,” he says through clenched teeth. “Just because you sleep in a cozy bed every night and eat handmade chocolates imported from Belgium doesn’t mean it’s what you deserve.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but somehow the quiet way in which he delivers his anger is worse. “Do you even know what hunger is? Have you ever been cold? Do you know what it feels like to sleep on the floor?” He lets me go with a shove. “I don’t think so. Don’t make me show you what reality for people without money is like.”
