Arranged Mafia Marriage

Michael

“Forgive my stepbrother, he can be an impolite motherfucker.”

Seb grabs her palm and brings it up to his lips.

The stronzo kisses the back of her fingers. I stiffen. How dare he? And after I warned him to stay away from her. I’d told them all to leave, but Seb had stayed back. Next to him, Adrian shuffles his feet.

Clearly, Seb had coerced him to wait, as well. Now, he glances between us, uncomfortable. “Seb,” he says in a low voice, “we should leave.”

“What’s the hurry?” Seb drawls in a tone that ensures that I can hear it.

Clearly, he is testing me. I roll my shoulders, take a step forward. Then stop. It won’t do to give away what I feel…which is…a confusing set of emotions that sits heavy in my gut.

I take in her face, her gaze alight as she glances up at him. No doubt, her attention is captured by the bastard’s beautiful countenance. It’s what makes people trust him, that is, until he pulls the rug out from under them.

Seb’s smile widens. His gaze dips to her lips, down the slope of her breasts-and I snarl low in my throat.

He laughs. “Why, principesa, I believe it’s going to be delightful to get to know you.”

Anger laces my blood.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?” I growl.

“How could I? Especially after you mentioned that you have a guest. It was but polite to stay on and introduce myself to her. Though I understand, now, why you prefer to keep her to yourself. She is stunning.” He peers down at her, and his face alights with a smile, “Your beauty is breathtaking, principessa.”

Karma giggles. I glance sideways, watch the blush rise to her cheeks. Anger crawls at my gut. She isn’t allowed to respond to any other man, to react to their flirtation, to have them hook her arm in the crook of their elbow and allow them to lead her to the table.

Seb pulls back the chair and she drops into it. He places his hand on the back of her chair and his fingers graze her shoulders. My vision tunnels. I stalk up to them, grab him by the back of his collar and haul him back.

“Whoa!” He swings around, fists raised.

“Leave,” I snarl. “Get the fuck off this island and don’t come back until I send for you.”

His eyebrows furrow; his breathing is ragged, “You should know better than to step up behind a man.”

“You should know better than touch what is mine…”

“Interesting choice of words.” His smile twists, “I do believe this is the first time I’ve seen you lose your composure, fratellastro.”

“Fuck off.” I jerk my chin toward the exit.

“Or what? ”

The blood begins to thud at my temples. I step up until we are toe to toe, “You don’t want to find out.”

A chair scrapes, and she appears between us. “Stop it.”

“Stay out of this,” I growl without taking my gaze off of the stronzo in front of me.

Seb shoots me a glance from under hooded eyebrows. “You threatening me?”

“What do you think?”

She thrusts her face closer, “I think you guys are hangry.”

I glower at the man in front of me.

“It happens to men and babies. When they are hungry, they can’t think straight, and often, end up fighting. So why don’t we sit down and eat, huh?”

Her stomach rumbles, the sound loud in the silence. She giggles, the sound a little nervous. “If I don’t eat soon enough, I am going to faint.”

“No, you’re not.” I glance at her sideways.

She turns her face up, “I really am starving.”

I frown.

“It’s not a ploy or anything. I mean, I’d love to see the two of you beat the shit out of each other, but it’s easier on a full stomach, huh?”

The door opens and one of my staff walks in with a tray of food. He stops, glances between us.

“Ah, food.” Seb rubs his hands together, “Dinner does seem like a good idea.”

“We are going to eat.” I turn to Seb, “You, on the other hand…” I jerk my chin toward the exit.

He dips his chin, then turns to Beauty. “Another time, my lady. I look forward to deepening our acquaintance.”

Not if I have anything to do with it. I grab his shoulder, shove him toward the exit. Adrian turns to me, “I’m sorry, Michael. Seb can sometimes be a dick.”

I tilt my head, “You’re a good brother, and an even better made man.” I widen my stance, “It’s one of the reasons I have tolerated Seb, so far. But his time is running out.”

Adrian firms his lips.

“Next time, I won’t be so lenient.”

Adrian nods. “I’ll talk to him,” he mutters, “you have my word.” He follows Seb out, and the door clicks shut behind him.

I glare at Beauty then jerk my chin toward the table. Her jaw firms but she doesn’t say a word. Thank fuck. She marches around and drops into the chair at the center of the table.

I stalk back to my chair opposite her, hold up my arm.

Emanuel places the dishes of food before us.

“Buon appetito.”

“Grazie, Emanuel.” I wave him off.

The scent of garlic and parmigiana fills the air. Opposite me, Beauty stares at the dish, picks up her fork and hesitates.

“It’s not seafood.”

She shoots me a glance from under her eyelashes. “How did you know that I am allergic to…” Her features tighten. “I don’t want to know.”

“You’re learning quickly.”

I twirl strands of spaghetti and bring the fork to my mouth. She watches me as I close my mouth around the fork, wipe it clean. Her pupils dilate and her breathing deepens.

“Like what you see?” I smirk.

She reddens, lowers her gaze to the plate. She cuts the pasta with her knife-a fucking knife-and I stare. She scoops it up with a spoon, and-Che cazzo! -I drop my fork on my plate with a clatter.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“What?” She scowls at me, “What did I do now?”

I glance at the strands of pasta hanging off of her spoon, then back at her face.

“What is it?” Her frown deepens, “You going to tell me, or are you simply going to glare at me like I committed an act of treason?”

“It’s worse than that.”

“It is?”

I nod. “You cut your spaghetti with a knife… Then proceeded to eat it with a spoon,” I growl.

“So?”

“So?” I glower, “That’s… a fucking crime.”Copyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.

“Umm… That’s a crime?” Her lips tremble. “You are the Mafia and you call that a crime?” She snorts, tries to control herself, then laughs, turns it into a cough, which turns into a real coughing fit. She places her knife and spoon down-finally, fuck-reaches for the glass of water and drinks it.

When she’s calmed herself down, and wiped away the tears which had run down her face, she glances at me.

I scowl at her, and she giggles, snorts again. I glare at her. “What the fuck is so funny?”

“N… nothing.” She chuckles, then manages to get a hold of herself. “So… you were saying-”

“Nothing,” I say through gritted teeth, “if you want to continue to eat your pasta like a philistine, be my guest.”

“But I don’t.” She giggles again, then firms her lips. “No, really Michael, show me how I am supposed to eat pasta.”

My glare intensifies and she raises both of her hands, palms face up, “No, I mean it. I want to learn. Promise.”

“Hmm.” I take in her features, her pink cheeks, her bright eyes, and fuck me, she looks beautiful. No, she always looks beautiful. Now, she looks full of life, happy, relaxed, the way she’s always meant to be. My scowl deepens.

The hell am I thinking along those lines? One shared meal and I am harboring thoughts of what…? Wanting her in my life for a longer period of time? Fuck that. That’s not why I brought her here. She’s here to fulfill a purpose, that’s all.

I pick up my fork. “You are supposed to pull aside a small amount of pasta, maybe two or three strands, twirl it on the plate, then carefully lift the fork.” I demonstrate to her, “The big mistake people always make is to try to pick up too much at once. It takes practice to get it right.” I twirl a few pasta strands with my fork then nod toward her plate. “Now, your turn.”

She looks like she is about to protest, and I shoot her a warning glance, “If you are going to eat Italian food, learn to do it properly.”

“Fine, fine,” she huffs, “don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

She twirls some of the pasta around her fork, then reaches for her spoon. Porca cane! I make a warning sound at the back of my throat and she glances at me, “Now what?”

I glare at her spoon, then back at her face.

She rolls her eyes, but lowers the spoon back to her plate. She twirls the pasta, then raises the fork with the pasta strands wrapped around the tines. Before she can get it to her mouth, the strands unravel and she lets out a groan of frustration. She looks at me and I nod at her fork.

“Pazienza. Try again.”

She lets out a sigh before turning her attention back to her fork. This time, she grabs fewer strands of pasta, carefully twirls the fork, and slowly lifts it to her mouth. “Happy, now?” She pretends to be irritated with me, but I can tell she’s feeling proud of herself.

“I’ll be happier when you taste the food.”

She tries the forkful and her expression lights up.

“Good, eh?”

“It’s incredible.” She scoops up another forkful, following my instructions to the letter, and wipes the tines of the fork clean, then closes her eyes, chews. A moan spills from her mouth. She swallows and my belly tightens; my dick lengthens, tenting my pants. Fuck. Is everything with this woman an orgasmic experience?

She cracks open her eyes and her gaze locks with mine. She reddens, then scowls, “Like what you see?”

My lips quirk and I firm them. So much sass, so much fire. Why does this girl always seem to get to me?

I rake my gaze across her mouth, down the flushed skin of her throat. “Every bit of it,” I murmur.

Her blush deepens. “I love eating.” She frowns.

And I’d love to eat you. I twirl more pasta onto my fork, bring it to my mouth and close my lips around the fork. “Don’t let me keep you from your food.”

She swallows, lowers her gaze to her own plate, then digs in with a relish that is fascinating to watch. Her every movement so immersed in taking full enjoyment from the moment. Everything she does, she puts her heart, her passion into it. When was the last time I was that…involved with what I do? Be it my work, my people, the things in my life that I took forward to… When had I begun to take it all for granted? When had I become so cynical that everything had begun to blur into a meaningless mess? A patchwork of black and white and grey, sometimes interlaced with crimson.

Then she’d splashed right into the center, a joyous rainbow. Something… Someone to be savored and held and stroked. Caressed until blood swells her skin, thrums at her fingertips, pours into her veins and engorges her pussy. As I drag my fingers up her curves to her neck, across the creamy expanse of her chest, where I squeeze her nipples, tease them into hard peaks of delight to be nibbled on, sucked on.

Her fork hits the plate with a clatter, and I look up.

She leans back with a sigh. “That was the best meal I’ve had in…forever.”

Good. I take another leisurely mouthful.

“Who is the chef? I’d love to pass on my compliments to him.”

“Her,” I murmur.

“What?”

“Larissa cooks all of my meals.”

“Oh,” she tilts her head, “I’d love to meet her.”

“You will.”

As I place my fork on my plate, there’s a knock on the door.