18. A Crime Boss Who Cooks
A Crime Boss Who Cooks
Salvatore
“Have a seat.” I direct Bianca to the kitchen island. “I won’t repeat myself.”
She doesn’t budge.
Brat.
“You might kidnap and fuck women for fun, but I am not a game you pick up and put down whenever you want,” she snaps, exhaustion settled into her voice from screaming my name. “Just because you dabble in criminal activity doesn’t mean—“
She yelps when I pick her up and sit her on the kitchen island. I grab the mappina between her legs and tap her hip. “Lift.”
The ass I held while I fucked her senseless spills from green pajama shorts bunched up her thighs. Bianca shifts to her other hip for me to flatten the dishcloth across the cool surface.
A line forms between her brows at the glass bowls I pull from one of the refrigerators. “What are you doing?”
“Feeding you.” I state the obvious. “To answer your question, I’m not in the habit of kidnapping or cooking for women.”
“Then what is this?”
Fuck if I know.
Whatever possessed me to chase Bianca is a mystery, just like cooking for her and not chaining her to the bed after what she did. I don’t have time for distractions, yet she ran through my mind like she ran my car into the garage door. Her defiance challenges my control.
Even now, with her arms folded over my shirt she’d demanded to wear, is a high I can’t help but chase.
I grab the seasonings. “Let’s call this a chance to get to know each other after a series of unfortunate events. Trouble can’t help but find you.”
“How do I know you won’t skin me for murdering your car?”
My face twists. “I only do that in my kill container.”
She deadpans.
“You were in no real danger in the courtyard.” I sigh. “I’m…”
“The word you’re looking for is sorry,” she adds.
I nod.
“I don’t know you, and from what I’ve seen, you’re a dickhead, a dummy, and dangerous.”
A smile cracks my expression, which I aim at the stone backsplash. “Says the woman who rammed a car into a steel door four times and expected it to budge. You’re paying me back for damages and pain and suffering. Twenty million should do it.”
“Eat my ass!” she hurls at my shirtless back.
“Come here.” I’ve yet to taste her pussy and will spread her over the counter. Then I’ll fuck her mouth if she’s not careful.
“After you had me drugged and chained up? Tuh!” She folds her arms and looks away. “How do I know I’ll be okay when this is over?”
The tremor in her voice pulls my attention from the olive oil heating in the skillet.
“You have my word, Bianca, I won’t hurt you.” I keep my tone even. “I’m going to put something on the counter for you.”
Her scream pierces through aged stone walls at the gun I pull from my waist. “What the—“
“I will not hurt you,” I repeat. “Take this so you feel safe.” I shift the handle away from me and slide the Glock toward her.
She blinks slowly, eyes narrowed. I enjoy fucking with her, but I don’t want her scared anymore.
“Aim it at me if—“
Bianca pulls back the slide and points the gun at my head.
Okay, then.
“I didn’t help Diana,” she says.
“I know. Better?” I nod toward the gun.
She lowers the Glock. “What are you making?”
I roll my lips and grab a mixing bowl for the mushrooms, peppers, and onions. “Pasta. I forgot to ask, are you allergic to shellfish?”
“No.” She angles her head for a better look. “It’s my first solo trip out of the country. I wasn’t expecting all of this.”
“How did you end up in Diana’s apartment?” I pick up a bowl with fresh shrimp and scallops to sauté next. Talking to her calms me.
Bianca crosses her legs, pulling me back to smooth thighs bearing the marks from my grip. “Some random housesitting website I found after quitting my job.”
“Seventeen years at Hamilton Capital and no vacation,” I say. “Some would call you a workaholic.”
“How do you know that?” The shake in her tone shifts my attention from the stove to her.
“I had my partner look into you,” I say with more care than I give to anyone’s feelings. “The one you called dickhead.”
Andrea finally came through with her background check. I spent the rest of the day in my office, learning everything about Bianca Harris. Where she was raised. What she studied at university. Her desires. A fifty-page document doesn’t scratch the surface of who she is.
Her grip on the gun eases with her shoulders. I won’t admit I read her diary in case she gets trigger-happy. I only skimmed a few pages to better understand the woman in my kitchen whose company I don’t hate.
She clears her throat. “So now that we’ve established I’m not a threat, why can’t I leave? I won’t say anything. I just want to get back to my life.”
“To a life you were so eager to leave?” I eye her. “We both know that’s not true. I told you that you’ve seen too much. You also owe me, Trouble.”
I could buy four hundred more Lamborghinis—if that one were still in production—and not blink. Bianca’s “debt” isn’t an issue. I don’t want her to leave yet.
She sucks her teeth. “Where is Alfred and the rest of your staff?”
“His name is Alfonso. I gave him and my staff the night off. Before you try to climb down the balcony again, the property is on internal lockdown. There are no windows on this side of the house. If you make it outside, my surveillance drones will fire at any unauthorized person. For your safety, you cannot leave.”
“Drones?” Bianca reaches for the wineglass I hand her.
I pour myself a glass from the bottle I had Alfonso select from the cellar. “I reengineered them for my protection. I keep the drones for myself, but I do have a weapons supplier.”
“So you’re the plug.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. Is this local?” She swirls the wineglass in her hand.
“Yes, from my vineyard,” I say.
“You have drones and weapons, but you’re in the wine business?” Her tongue swipes over her bottom lip to lick off our signature red coating her mouth.
I adjust myself and check the food. “The vineyard is one of my businesses. I own restaurants. One here in Catania. The other is in Mazara del Vallo, with my seafood distribution center,” I say. “Andrea, my business partner, runs our manufacturing.”
Bianca huffs. “How do you have time for all of that? Human resources ran me ragged, and that was one job.”
I shrug. “Different interests keep my attention. I have capable managers to oversee the day-to-day of my businesses, which allows me to move between companies.”
“Sounds like you need a vacation.”
“Never taken one.”
“What?! You’re older than me.”
I whip my head in her direction. “Let’s not pretend you won’t touch forty in a month. I’m only forty-two. Black doesn’t crack over here either, Trouble.”
The melody of Bianca’s giggles stirs something in my chest that I push away.
“You need to take one,” she continues, in her pursuit to boss me around. “I’m treating myself to Positano while I’m here. The pictures are gorgeous.”
“Our coasts are just as beautiful,” I mumble.
“Show me. Or do I not get field trips as your hostage?”
“Where did you learn Italian?” I set the heat on low, ignoring her request for a holiday.
“Vince,” she says with affection for a man I might snatch myself. “He’s been my father figure since I was a baby. I spent most weeks at his restaurant in Little Italy.”
I nod. “He taught you well.”
“Thank you.”
She clears her throat. “So multiple businesses. A property that puts you in an elite tax bracket. Where does the mafia fit in?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I’m not in one?”
Bianca’s cheeks dent from laughter that meets silence. “Please,” she snorts. “I saw a man hanging in your basement. What was that, decoration? Have I been fucking the don?”
I shake my head. “Not a don. A crime boss, if you need a label. The Scilari doesn’t use the same structure as what you’d consider the mafia.”
She stills. “You’re serious?”
All playfulness fades when I step between her legs. She inhales at my hands on either side of her hips and cranes back to meet my eyes.
“I told you that you know too much, Trouble. You’re not going anywhere.”