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“Oh. Sure. Down the hall. Second room on the left.”
“Thank you so much.” Already darting away down the hall, she calls the words over her shoulder, and I watch after her, curious about how she ended up here and why. It’s no leap to assume she got those bruises from a man. A man with big, meaty fists if the size of that black eye is any indication. If I recall correctly, she’s married. Is she running from her husband?
Leaning against the wall, I wait outside the bathroom. I can’t exactly leave her wandering the halls now, can I? My niece and nephews are asleep, and for all I know, she could be a serial killer who smells like lemons and jasmine.
When she emerges a few minutes later, she gives me another wide smile. Her injuries look worse in the bright light of the hallway, her swollen eye giving way to a purple contusion that covers the entire right side of her face. A drop of blood wells from the cut in her lip. She must have wiped it in the bathroom and caused the wound to reopen. Her tongue darts out to lick the blood, and for some reason, I look away.
“Would it be too much trouble to get a little something to eat? All I’ve eaten today was a bag of Skittles and some beef jerky.” She looks at me with wide hazel eyes—or are they green? It’s hard to tell in the glare of the light. “I can fix something myself if you show me the way?” she offers.
Fuck! I shake my head to clear it and motion in front of me. “I’ll show you the kitchen.”
She falls into step beside me. “Thank you so much. I can’t imagine what you must be thinking having me turn up on your doorstep like this.”
“That you’re running from your husband?” I offer with a disinterested shrug. My tone is clipped and harsh, but if she takes any offense, she doesn’t show it.
“Yup. You read me right,” she says with a soft laugh. “I guess you’re good at reading people in your business.”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “And that is?”
She shrugs. “Mafia stuff.”
I stop and stare at her. Did she really just say that out loud? “Mafia stuff?”
“You’re Cosa Nostra, right? Sicilian Mafia?” she says, turning around when she notices I’m no longer walking beside her.
The corners of my mouth lift into a faint grin. “People don’t usually say it so bluntly. Not to my face.”
She tilts her head, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she stares at me with a look on her face that I can’t quite figure out. Is she fronting or is she really as unaffected by this encounter as she appears to be? “Oh, right. I’m sorry. I thought it was like your job title or something.”
Swallowing an unexpected laugh, I move past her and push open the kitchen door, motioning for her to go ahead. “Do you always say what you’re thinking, or is it a nervous thing?”
“Oh, almost always,” she says, walking past me into the kitchen and leaning up against the massive wooden table. She studies me curiously. “And I’m not nervous.”.
I narrow my eyes at her. Who the hell is this woman? “You’re not? You’re in this house, alone, with a man who doesMafia stuff, and you’re not even a little nervous?”
“Not even a little.” She grins, and her eyes, appearing brown in the softer light of the kitchen, burn into mine.
I take a few steps toward her. Goosebumps prickle her forearms, but she keeps her gaze locked on mine. “Maybe you should be nervous, Mia.”
Her face lights up like a Christmas tree. “You remember my name?”
“I-I, uh—”
“Anyway, Kat told me you’re a really good guy. Plus, I saw you with your wife. How you acted, you know…” Her eyes fill with tears, and she swats them away.
I swallow the hard knot of emotion lodged in my throat. I’m going to regret this, but I can’t pass up the opportunity to see our relationship through someone else’s perspective—it’s like getting back a piece of Anya, a piece I never had while she was here. “How did I act?”
“The way you looked at her. Like you would hang the moon for her.” She sighs softly. “Every woman deserves a man who looks at her like that. Everyone deserves someone who adores them. Someone who would die for them.”
This woman—this stranger could see all that? Fuck, Istilladore Anya. I would’ve died for her one hundred times over. Given half a fucking chance, I’d die right now just for one more moment with her. I cough to clear my throat, but it doesn’t help. My voice comes out rough. “You got all that from a few hours in our company?”
“Love like that can’t be masked. A few moments in your company would have told me the same.” Her stomach growls loudly, and her cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink. “Any chance of that food?”
“What? Yes, of course.” I was staring again. What the fuck? “We have some leftover risotto, or there’s meat and fresh bread?”
“Risotto would be perfect. Thanks.”
I’ve never seen a woman take as much joy in food as Mia does. She closes her eyes to savor each mouthful and lets out a soft moaning sound every time she takes a bite. Our cook Sophia does make an incredible risotto, but still.
