Page 30 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“So you want me to act like your expensive new toy.”
“I want you to act like a woman clever enough to understand the room she’s in.”
“That wasn’t the line in your study.”
“In my study, I was provoking you.”
“I noticed.”
“You tried to stab me.”
“I’m still considering it.”
He takes a sip of wine without looking away. “You’ll have other opportunities. I’m sure.”
The ease of that answer annoys me more than a threat would have. “And what if someone recognizes me?”
“They won’t.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“I paid enough money for you to cover it up and be sure of it.”
The words sit between us with more weight than they should. Not a confession. Not even close. Just a glimpse of something hard and old beneath the polished surface. I know better than to poke at unknown wounds, especially on men with private armies and control issues, so I drop it and leave it alone.
For now.
Dinner continues with the uncomfortable rhythm of a negotiation pretending to be a meal. He tells me the basics of Leon’s Miami circle: where I am allowed to stand, which names I am allowed to use, and which details about the auction I am expected to know. I listen because the information matters. I argue because he expects obedience, and I prefer breathing.
He corrects me when I reach for the wrong glass. I pause, staring at him. He looks back calmly. “You are supposed to know how to behave at my table.”
“I know how to behave.”
“You are holding the water glass like you plan to weaponize it.”
“I’m currently considering throwing it at your head, yes.”
“That is exactly my point.”
I set the glass down with exaggerated care. “Better?”
“No. But it’s a start.” His mouth curves up, green eyes bright, and I hate that the expression settles low in my stomach before I can redirect it into anger.
By the time the main course is cleared, I am tired of being reasonable. Stefano notices before I move, I see it in the faint lift of his brow when I push back my chair and stand. He does not ask where I am going. He watches. That almost makes me change my mind.
Almost.
If he wants a performance, I can give him one. I cross the room slowly, and his eyes stay locked on me. Stefano’s chair is angled slightly from the table.
Convenient.
I turn and sit in his lap. For one brief, deeply satisfying second, he goes still.
Not shocked. He does not seem like a man who is easily shocked. But I feel the pause in him, the smallest break in that perfect control as my weight settles over his thighs and my hip presses against the hard line of his body. His hand comes to my waist on instinct. Not to push me off. To steady. To possess. To stop me from doing whatever I have planned, whatever it is that hasn’t yet decided I am allowed to do.
I look at his plate, then at him. “Feed me.”
His eyes darken. And for half a second, I think there is a very good chance I have miscalculated him. But I don’t retreat. The silence stretches long enough for the candles to make a soft sound as they burn. Then he picks up his fork.
