Page 45 of Owned By the Italian Mafia Don

I don’t miss how she looks me up and down, heat swirling in her brown eyes, but I do not feel the same. Everything I want is down the hall, whether we are in a business deal or not. Her hands drift up my arm in a way that shouts how interested she is.

“Wow, you’re in peak physical health, Mr. Milazzo,” she practically purrs, and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes at how obvious she’s being.

If I wanted her, I could have her.

But nothing about how she is presenting herself attracts me. I like my women difficult, slightly aggravating, and with curly hair that goes in every direction.

The nurse spins the stool and starts poking and prodding around the exit wound. I hear a gasp and see Rosie in the hallway, clutching a towel to her chest, and her blue eyes pierce me through the shadowed darkness of the hall. That’s when the nurse runs her hand over my shoulder, humming in appreciation.

“I’m going to numb the area, but you might still feel some pressure, okay?”

“No problem,” I tell her, taking another swig of my drink.

Rosie’s eyes fall to my hand, and I curse, forgetting I had taken my ring off so I can clean it.

Is she jealous?

And is it wrong of me to want her to continue to be jealous?

When she presses a needle into my skin, I clench my fist and a rumble fills my chest to hold in the fucking curse I want to scream.

“You’re taking this well,” the nurse says.

“It isn’t my first time being shot. It won’t be the last.”

“Well—” she stands in front of me, biting her lip while she injects this side with medicine. “I hope if you do, you’ll call me again.”

I peer over her shoulder to see Rosie, leaning against the wall, watching the nurse flirt with me.

I want her to stay jealous. It tells me she cares in some sick and twisted way. I don’t care what I have to do to have Rosie look at me like this more often.

“We’ll have to see,” I say, staying neutral but not giving her hope either.

I want Rosie to see me speaking with her.

“How does this feel?” Her free hand lands on my good shoulder, pressing the edges of the wound while staring directly into my eyes.

Does this work on other men?

“Feels fine. I don’t feel a thing,” I grunt, snagging the whiskey bottle and taking another long swig.

“Great. I’m going to start stitching up then. I’m going to give you some pain medicine too. You need to keep your arm in a sling until I come and take out your stitches.”

“We’ll see about that too.”

“Now, don’t be complicated, Mr. Milazzo,” she giggles, beginning to stitch up the wound. “Unless you want me back here sooner.” She bats her eyelashes at me, and I wait to feel something, anything to suggest I might want this woman, but nothing is there.

I only want Rosie. I peer into the hallway again and Rosie isn’t there anymore.

Fuck.

I messed up. Again.

I shouldn’t have even entertained the nurse, but I loved how Rosie looked at me as if she wanted to stomp in here and claim me as her own.

She didn’t and I know she wouldn’t, at least, not under the current circumstances.

I’m feeling a slight buzz from the alcohol by the time the nurse is done stitching me up.

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