Mafia King by L. Steele

32

Karma

I have been transported to some strange, alternate reality. That is the only reason I can imagine for why I am sitting here, at the breakfast counter of the kitchen of this manor on an island somewhere off the coast of Italy…watching a Mafia Capo, clad in only gray sweatpants and an apron, cooking at the stovetop.

OMG! That's so damn hot. His broad back is to me and I can’t take my gaze off the play of muscle, the shift of those sculpted planes under his skin as he bustles around the space. He pours out the pancake batter onto one skillet, while in another, he cracks eggs. On a third pan, he’s frying bacon and on the fourth burner, he has hash browns sizzling. OMG. My head spins as I watch him manage all four dishes at the same time, and not lose a step. He wipes his hand on the apron… Did I already mention? Yes, the man is wearing a freakin’ apron… And honestly, he looks too damn sexy… Gah! My mouth waters, and it’s not for the food.

I must have made a noise because he smirks at me over his shoulder, "You all right over there?"

I open my mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a gurgle. Damn! I reach for the glass of water on the table in front of me, and take a sip to clear my throat. Then scowl back at him, "Of course, I am."

A strand of hair falls across his forehead and he brushes it away. the gesture is so familiar...so very Mika. My heart stutters, and I can't take my gaze off of him.

"You sound like you have a lot on your mind." His grin widens. No doubt, the fact that I am staring at him is inflating his already inflated ego. Jerkass!

I carefully place the glass of water back on the table, then meet his gaze, "I was just wondering how you managed to get all of those clothes, and all in my size, in the closet before I first arrived? Did you order them on your way here, after you knocked me out?"

"I simply pressed down on the carotid artery on either side of your neck, and you lost consciousness."

"Thanks for the medical lesson." I scowl. "If you don’t want to tell me about how you acquired the clothes for me—"

"Yes."

I frown. "What do you mean, yes?"

"Yes, I ordered them on the phone to have them delivered before we arrived at the island, while you were unconscious."

"You had all of those clothes, shoes, and underwear delivered in a few hours?" I blink. "How did you manage that?"

He stares at me and I huff, "Yeah, of course, money can solve anything." I hold his gaze, "And what about the shampoo and shower gel in the bathroom?" I tip up my chin, "Did you order that too? How did you know what fragrance I prefer?"

"Your scent, Beauty," his lips twist, "it's a combination of moonflowers and your essence. It's uniquely you... I found the most highly-rated sources and bought them for you."

Heat flushes my cheeks. Why the hell does that feel so intimate? After everything he's done to me, the fact that he accurately identified the fragrance of the shampoo I use should be the least of my worries. I shuffle my feet as another thought strikes me, "So, does this mean that you had already decided that you were going to—"

"Keep you? Play with you? Marry you?" He raises a shoulder, "Not consciously. All I knew was that I wasn't going to let go of you in a hurry."

I blink rapidly. What the hell does he mean by that? He isn't telling me anything I didn’t already know and yet, these words seem very close to a confession of...something. Emotions? Feelings?

Nah, the Capo doesn't feel all that. All he means is that he isn't letting go of me until he gets what he wants from me. Yeah, I lean back in my seat. That's what it means.

My heart flutters and I rub at my chest. Please, please, don't tell me that my stupid heart condition is deciding now is the time to surface again. Not after I've been fine all these years, too. The sensation subsides and I blow out a breath.

He grabs a few slices of bread, pops them in the toaster, then turns to me, "I assume you like your eggs sunny side up."

I blink, then nod. I’m about to ask him how he guessed, but frankly, at this point, it doesn’t matter. He’s definitely going to have some dumbass explanation about it, and it’s not like I want to know, anyway. I mean, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and in this case, it’s in the delicious breakfast that he serves up not ten minutes later. He places a plate piled with pancakes and drizzled with syrup, while on another plate, there are two eggs, sunny side up, with toast, hash browns, and bacon, which he sets down in front of me.

"Um, who is all this food for?"

"You?"

He grins and his face lights up. Oh, dear god, when he smiles like that, he’s way too attractive. The bandage over his sternum is a stark contrast to the rest of his sculpted, tanned chest. And I can’t take my gaze off it as he sits down in the chair opposite me.

"It doesn’t hurt," he murmurs. "You didn’t hurt me… Much."

"I don’t know if that’s good or bad." I fight the urge to apologize, then scowl back at him. "I did intend to cause you harm, you know?"

"No, you didn’t." He reaches for the Moka—the Italian version of a coffee pot—and pours out the coffee he’s freshly brewed, some into my espresso cup, then some for himself.

"What do you mean, I didn’t?" I frown. "You a mind reader or something now?"

He raises his espresso cup to his lips, takes a sip, then sighs, "That’s how coffee should be drunk—strong and intense and bitter."

"Just like you."

"What’s that?" He smirks and I cough.

"Nothing, and don’t change the subject."

"I wasn’t."

"Yes, you were." I accuse him, "Here I am, trying to figure out what the hell you are up to, and you are extolling the properties of Italian coffee while making a combination of an all American/British breakfast…or a combination of breakfasts, that is."

"Don’t you like it?" He eyes the food on the plates in front of me, "I figured you'd prefer this over a traditional Sicilian breakfast, but if you’d prefer something else…"

"It’s not that." I drag my fingers through my hair. "I just wish you’d tell me why you decided to move me from the cell. And now, you are cooking me breakfast and…" I draw in a breath, "and this morning, even though you were, clearly, turned on, you didn’t try to—"

"Fuck you?" The alphahole smirks as he reaches for his pancakes and begins to dig into them. As I watch, he inhales a quarter of the stack in seconds. Shit, and I haven’t even started on mine.

"As you are well aware, your use of four-letter words doesn’t bother me, in the least." I scoff as I cut into my own stack. "And yeah, that’s what I mean." I pop the piece of pancake into my mouth and chew. "Whoa." I stare at him. "These are good."

"Surprised?"

"Well, yeah, I wasn’t expecting you to cook." I frown, "Speaking of, where’s the staff? Did you give them the day off?"

"The week off, actually."

"You did?" I dig into more of the pancakes and chew on them, "Is it some special occasion or something, that you allowed them time off?"

"It is." He nods, then pushes the plate with the eggs and bacon toward me, "You need to eat that too."

"After I finish the pancakes, if I have space, that is." I dig into the remainder of the food on my plate, then polish off the rest of the pancakes. I push my plate aside and he slides the other one in its place. "Eat," he commands, as he reaches for his second plate filled similarly to mine.

"Also," I say with my mouth full, "this is the first time I am seeing you dressed in sweats. Didn’t think you owned a pair, considering you are always dressed in suits that seem to be from Saville Row."

He makes a sound deep in his throat, "Wouldn’t touch those with a barge pole."

"Huh?" I frown. "Why’s that?"

"I get my suits tailor-made by an artisan who has been stitching them for generations for the men in my family."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Of course, you do."

He smirks. "You sassing me, Beauty?"

"Me?" I say crunching my way through the bacon, which is absolutely delicious, by the way, "Of course, not." I widen my gaze, "I wouldn’t dare… My Lord." I flutter my eyelashes at him and his grin widens.

"Very good. Keep that up, and I may just be willing to give you your next orgasm."

"And there he is; the alphahole extraordinaire makes an appearance," I raise my eyes skyward, "just as we were getting along, too… Or at least, it seemed that way," I mutter under my breath.

"I heard that." He chuckles, "And to answer your earlier questions, one," he holds up a finger, "I learned to cook when I went to university in the US, and I enjoy American and British style breakfasts and didn’t want to presume that the full English was the only kind of food you’d like to eat in the morning so I made both, and two," he holds up a second finger, "the reason I am wearing sweats is because there’s no one else in the house."

"Oh." I set down my fork and glance around the space, "That’s why the place seems empty. So, the staff is gone, and so are your brothers?"

"That’s correct." He finishes off his bacon, then cuts up the eggs and scoops them up with a piece of toast. I watch as he chews his food, the tendons of his throat moving as he swallows. Fuck, but only Michael Byron Dominico Sovrano would make eating into an orgasm-inducing process. My throat goes dry. Somehow, I manage to chew and swallow my food, as he lowers his gaze to mine. He sets down his fork, then reaches for his napkin and dabs at his mouth. I lower my gaze to his lips and heat tugs at my belly. I squeeze my thighs together, mirror his actions and place my fork down.

"So, how come your brothers and the rest of your family and the staff are away?"

"Haven’t you figured it out yet?" His eyes gleam, "Come on, Beauty, one guess, why there’s no one else in the house..."

"Umm," I wipe my suddenly damp palms on my bathrobe, "because it’s your birthday and you’ve given them all time off?"

"That doesn’t explain why my family left the house."

"Because you fought with them and told them to leave?"

"It has happened on occasion, but no, it’s not that."

My heart begins to pound in my chest. My pulse rate ratchets up. Moisture pools between my thighs and I slide my chair back… I try to be discreet but one of the legs catches on the stone floor and a screech fills the space.

I stiffen, but Michael doesn’t move a muscle.

"You were saying?" He scratches the area of his chest around the bandage, and bloody hell, my gaze is instantly drawn to those gorgeous sculpted pecs again. What a pity that I had to hurt him. It feels like I have spoiled a work of art designed by God himself.

"Beauty?"

I hear the smirk in his voice and raise my gaze to his, "I was saying that...you gave your staff time off and probably sent your brothers on some Mafia-related job."

"Very good." He lowers his hand. "I knew you were smart."

I paste on a bright smile, even as my stomach flip-flops. This is not good. Not good at all. "So," I grip the edge of the table, "when will they be back?"

"Next week."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His grin widens until he resembles one of those freakin’ sharks in that stupid Jaws movie, the one that had made me laugh because the special effects, clearly, hadn’t withstood the test of time, but right now there’s nothing amusing about this situation, because Michael’s shark-smile is infinitely more unnerving.

I gulp. “Wh… What do you mean?" I press the heels of my bare feet into the floor. Shit, why hadn’t I thought to, at least, put on some shoes? Well, too late now. I’m just gonna have to face this situation head-on. "Well?" I scowl. "Tell me, Michael, what does it mean that they’ re not coming back until next week?"

"It means," he yawns, "that this is our honeymoon, Beauty. You and me, husband and wife, darling." He smirks, "And this is when we consummate our wedding."