Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ANNA
The nicest name I could think of for him was ?Hijo de puta! Son of a bitch.
Rage had twisted so much into my body that it vibrated out of every cell. I wanted to grab my knife and stab him in a thousand different places. I’d start with his fucking eyes and mouth.
Calm the fuck down, Anna.
I was vexed enough to storm in and do it. The fact that I had to think of Mamá and Mara incensed me. I wanted to kill him. Now. My fist clenched around the knife I’d used to cut the chilies. But I couldn’t. When I wanted to expel my responsibilities and…
Sound of laughter filtered in through the gap in the door. Are they laughing at me?
Instead of sharpening my knife to draw his blood, I marched towards the door. Stefano must have said something, since he was obviously the only joker in the family. He probably made fun of the Don. He was definitely more fun than the asshole I worked for.
“Get her back here.” Joder. I’d pushed it. Pissed off the Don when all I really wanted…
“No.” One single word. No explanation behind it.
A chair scraped against the floor.
“Where’re you going?” The Don’s wife’s soft voice. Daria. I loved her socials. Followed her under a ghost account.
Wait. I jumped back from the door. Was he coming to the kitchen?
“Need to make a call.” Stefano’s voice.
“In the middle of dinner?” She seemed to be the only one who wanted to eat my food.
He said something in Italian. The fading footsteps meant he must have walked out.
I edged closer. “I don’t trust her food.” The Don. Was he still not allowing her to eat?
“Ironic, coming from a man who eats rotten food on a weekly basis.” Niccolò’s voice, tone dry.
“What?” She sounded pissed. Join the team. “My food’s not rotten.”
“The lasagna you tried to feed us last week could have wiped out the entire Martello gene.” The sound of cutlery followed.
If the Don wasn’t allowing his wife to eat…
only one person was digging in. He was so fucking sure I hadn’t poisoned him.
I stewed in my anger. I wouldn’t have. Not in front of his family, at least, but it irritated me that he knew it.
“You said you had a stomach bug.” She wasn’t letting go of it. I’d seen the picture of her lasagna. Her caption had read, if he won’t eat the food he can’t have me. The woman had guts.
More than you, idiot.
She would have probably killed him already. If he wasn’t her brother-in-law and he’d murdered her father.
Seconds passed. What was he doing? Couldn’t be enjoying my food. He probably thought that was dull too. That would be the day. I make a damn good paella. “I was being polite.”
She scoffed. “You’re never polite.”
I was beginning to like this girl.
“I am when your husband tells me he’d cut my balls off.” Another pause. “This tastes like heaven.”
This? The paella? His whiskey? Or was he licking the table? It probably matched his soul. Ridículo. The table was wooden. It had more soul than he did.
“Why’re you telling me now?” She really wasn’t letting go. She might be my new best friend. Not that I had an old one.
“You pissed me off.”
“Ridiculo. You’re never pissed. Enzo, there was nothing wrong with my food, right? You eat it.”
I imagined the Don giving his wife an indulgent look. “It was delicious, principessa.”
She was no fool. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“Maybe we should ask Bernadetta to cook the next time we have visitors.”
“You can have all her food then. I’m going to Sicily.”
“No fucking way.”
Silence followed, and a moan. “This is soooooo good.” Hallelujah. He finally allowed her to eat. “Can we have her, Nico?”
“No.”
Silence again. I leaned in so close to the door that it started to swing. I pulled back sharply.
“If you want her, principessa I’ll get her for you.”
?Qué demonios? I’m not a damn dog.
“She’s not a fucking commodity.”
I pressed against the door. I didn’t think I’d ever heard him raise his voice. Given the silence that followed, no one else had either.
After a beat, the Don spoke, “Interesting.” He sounded as if he’d tested something and was dissecting the results.
“Besides, she’s useless. Doesn’t follow instructions. Can’t make up her mind. She simply can’t get the job done.”
Hijo de puta. I backed off. I didn’t know what to think of it. I should definitely not ask him for a reference before I offed him. Just when I had liked that he’d defended me, he’d reminded me again why I loathed him. Almost as if he’d done it on purpose.
A él era un asesino.
He provoked me. Made a joke of my emotions.
He was a murderer.
A él era un asesino.
A él era un asesino.
I paced the kitchen. I had to show my face again to clear the plates.
I’d made dessert. But at this rate, I might fling some sesame oil on my Crema Catalana, smash it on his face, and watch him burn.
Except who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to watch anything, but at least it would show him. I got the fucking job done.
“Shouldn’t you be out there?”
I stopped pacing. Isidora stood in the middle of the kitchen, her look curious. Even as I let out a relieved sigh that Magda hadn’t ventured out of the room, an exit plan clicked into place. I wasn’t a coward, but right then I was. “Can you do it?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Scared you’ll throw yourself at him in front of his family, huh?”
“Something like it,” I managed to mutter through my clenched teeth.
A silly grin spread across her face. “I knew it.”
“Whatever,” I groaned. “Please?”
“Fine. But I want my HEA.”
Will that be him six feet under?
“We’ll seal it together.”
She gave me a weird look.
His coffin.
“I’m tired. My English is off.”
“Tired, huh? Wonder what’s keeping you up at night.”
“My boss,” I muttered, and at least that wasn’t a lie.
With a laugh, she strolled out to the dining room. The conversation in the room stilled. Nothing. Not a squeak. What was going on?
Don’t you dare look.
I paced the kitchen. Stopped when footsteps approached, but still jumped out of my skin when the door swung open. Isidora walked in, laden with plates. She dumped them on the counter and gave me a weird look.
“What did you do?”
“Ugh?”
“I’ve only ever known the man to be cold. He ignores me all the time. Now he was looking at me like he was imagining me.”
“He was?” Hijo de puta.
“Yes. Skinned alive and roasting on his barbecue.”
Awww… was he missing out on degrading me? “Maybe one of his brothers pissed him off.”
“Yeah? I don’t think so.” She pointed at me. “You did something, girl. You got our boss melting faster than ice on a hot grill.”
She turned to leave. Stopped at the door and gave me a devious look. “Good thing he’s got two more hotties there. For one, I’d give it a thought, but for three… I’d skin myself alive to save them the trouble.”
“He can’t be that mad,” I muttered.
“Figure it out yourself.” She nodded toward the door before walking through it.
I held onto the kitchen counter. Why was he even pissed off? Did he really expect me to walk out and stab him in front of everyone? I walked to the door. I had a good upbringing. I’d off him after they left.
Isidora walked in, carrying two plates. Seeing me behind it, she kept the door open for a second longer. It was enough to catch the brunt of his anger seeping through the gap right at me. I pulled back with a gasp. The door swung shut.
“Told you.”
I stared at the door. It felt like he bored into my soul in that one second.
“I thought I was your friend.”
I was a coward. Should have poisoned him.
“Are you even listening to me?”
Isidora had stopped placing the desserts on the tray, an annoyed glare on her face. Guilt climbed up my throat. “I’m sorry.”
She walked to the door. “I’ll forgive you.” I smiled, relieved. “If you put in a good word to his brothers.”
I stared at her. “They’re the Mafia.”
“Your point being?”
I shook my head. “Whatever.”
“Also, I want to know about the sex.”
“What sex?”
“You, him. Under the sheets.”
“No—”
She shook her head. “Agreed. You’ll never make it to a bed.”
I scoffed. “They’ll have a snowstorm in Marbella before I sleep with that gilipollas.”
She giggled. “I’m sure you meant whatever you said as an insult, but if you talk to him like that, you’ll end up in trouble.
” She sighed dramatically. “You’re so lucky.
Your accent alone will get you fucked.” Yes, because she didn’t have looks and charm greeting her each morning in the mirror besides her Italian accent.
“Besides, hate sex, darling. It’ll be worth the risk of global warming. ”
She waltzed out the door. I stared at it until it stopped swinging. I could have been her. So carefree. Simple goals in life. If Papá had been alive, I would have been her.
A few minutes later, the sound of her footsteps reached me. I prepared for the next report. Putting myself behind the counter and showing a fake nonchalance I was far from feeling, I cleared the dirty dishes.
The door swung open. “Global warming isn’t a jo—” My words faded into the same vacuum that sucked at my breath.
Isidora stood at the door. Empty plates and tension in the air.
Behind her was the cold wall of Niccolò Martello.
It may not have been a joke. But it was happening in real time. The man was furious.
She rushed to the counter and dropped her plate.
“I di—”
“Get out.”
She took one look at him. Then proved to me that her friendship had limits. The air in the kitchen should have cooled by the wind she left in her hurry to get the hell out.