Page 20 of The Mad Don
I think about two days of this. Two days of jokes I am meant to hear men who have decided that making me uncomfortable is the most entertaining thing they can do.
I pick up the bowl, and I drink it.
The taste is exactly as bad as the smell promised. I hold my face completely still through all of it, and I set the empty bowl back on the counter, and I walk the three steps to the man who served it to me, and I smile at him.
Then I spit it directly into his face. The room goes very still for exactly one second.
He lunges at me, and I drop under it. I come up inside his reach and drive my knee up hard into his midsection. He falls, and behind me, someone bigger punches my cheekbone, and I fall.
The cheering starts.
I get up.
The fork is on the floor near my hand where it fell from someone’s tray, and I have it before I have a plan for it. Coming off the floor with momentum, I jump up, and my legs go around the big man’s neck, and we fall together, and I come out on top, and the fork is at his throat.
The cheers stop
I can feel his pulse under the tines. I stab the fork into his neck, and he jerks violently as I pull it out. The man who lunged at me is crawling away. I pull out the fork, and blood splashes on my face.
I stand and turn to everyone watching. “I dare you,” I say. “Try me.”
Nobody moves.
Then I hear clapping behind me. I turn to see Giovanni standing in the doorway, his jacket open and sleeves rolled up. He looks like he is watching something he paid for. Since the day I moved in here, I haven’t seen him. Maybe that is why I am constantly in awe of how big he is. The oversized suit hid something.
“As expected,” he says pleasantly, “of Kirill’s woman.” He looks at the man on the floor, and his face turns cold. “Cosa state aspettando—” he snaps at the room.What are you waiting for? Take him away
Two men come in and drag the body out, and he watches them go, and then he looks at me, and he holds out his hand.
I look at it.
“The fork, Miss Yana.”
I hold it a moment longer then place it in his hand.
“Pardon their manners,” he says. “Eat with me today.
“I’ll pass.”
Behind him, two of his men cock their weapons.
He leans in slightly and lowers his voice. “You don’t have much of a choice.”
Mad man. Idon’t say it out loud, but it crosses my face because his mouth twitches.
I follow him into the main house and sit at his table. The cook brings food, and the smell is delightful. He calls the cook and whispers something to her. The cook turns and disappears, then returns with a spice container. She sprinkles the powder onto a plate and gives it to me.
“Spice,” he says.
The food is extraordinary. I am aware that I am eating too fast, and I cannot make myself stop because I have had two days of barely anything, and my body has opinions about this that override my dignity entirely.
He sits across from me and watches. I can feel him watching me, and I can feel the smile in it getting bigger, and I keep eating. I will deal with the humiliation of this later, privately, when I am alone.
Mid-chew, a sharp pain stabs me. It’s a cramp so sharp that my fork hits the plate before I’ve processed the sound. Then another. I put both hands on the table, breathe through it, and look up at him.
“What did you do?”
“Don’t be dramatic. The cook just added a mild poison to your food. It’s the type you’ll throw up in a few minutes.”
