Page 32 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“When do we meet Leon?” I ask.
“In two days.”
“Why two?”
“Because men like Leon hate waiting. The more frustrated he is, the more mistakes he’ll make when forced to move on my schedule. Not his.”
“And until then?”
“Until then,” he says, “you learn how to stand beside me without looking like you want my blood on your hands.”
I let my gaze drop deliberately to the bruise on his cheekbone. “I’ll do my best.”
Too late, I realize he likes the challenge.
“You’ll do better than that,” he says, his voice dropping lower as his eyes darken.
Arrogant bastard.
Chapter Six
Stefano
Iremain in the dining room after Maya leaves. Just long enough for the silence to settle where she had been. Long enough for the candles to burn lower beside the plates and for the room to lose the heat she dragged into it when she decided to climb into my lap and make a weapon of the role I gave her.
A clever little move. Reckless. Yet irritatingly effective. I should dislike how quickly she learns. Instead, I find it enticing.
Finishing the last of my wine, I look toward the door where she disappears, still half-expecting to hear her arguing with Omar in the hall. She does not disappoint me. Her voice carries faintly for a few seconds, low and sharp, then Omar’s deeper reply follows. I cannot make out the words, but I know the shape of the exchange well enough.
She provokes. He resists. She provokes again. She seems to enjoy provoking the men in her company. And I know Omar willhate how amusing he finds her. That pleases me more than it should. I set the glass down and stand. The servant waiting near the sideboard straightens immediately.
“Clear the room,” I tell him.
“Yes, sir.”
The hall outside is quiet, but not empty. My men are positioned exactly where they should be, visible enough to remind Maya she is watched and discreet enough not to make her feel caged too tightly. A locked cage teaches nothing. An open one reveals where the prisoner runs first.
Maya has already shown me more of her hand than she meant to. Her soft spots, her desires, her purpose here. The children. Leon. Defiance. Control. Shame beneath desire. Desire beneath hate.
All useful things to note. Some are more dangerous than others.
By the time I reach my study, the house has shifted into evening discipline. Guards rotate. Staff lower their voices. Doors close softly. The children’s floor remains protected, with Omar’s men posted near the stairwell and inner corridor. Maya will notice that by morning, if she has not already, and she will hate me for making the change.
My study still carries traces of her from earlier. The chair angled incorrectly from where she slept. The file she left slightly askewon the desk. A faint smear of blood near the edge where her wrist reopened over Alice’s photograph. One of the staff missed it.
I should have it cleaned. I don’t. The blood is a useful reminder. I am behind the desk less than two minutes before Omar knocks loudly on the door.
That is how I know he is irritated.
Omar doesn’t knock like that when the matter is small. He enters, reports, and leaves before most men finish deciding whether they have permission to breathe, let alone speak. But tonight, he knocks because he wants me to understand he is choosing restraint before he walks into my study and questions decisions that would get another man shot.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens. He steps inside and closes it behind him. No report in his hand. No phone. No folder. Just Omar, expression flat, shoulders rigid beneath his black jacket, eyes sharper than they were an hour ago when he escorted Maya to dinner and pretended not to notice every man in the house noticing her.
I lean back in my chair. “What’s on your mind, Omar?”
His jaw works once. “She is FBI.”
