Page 45 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
For the first time tonight, I am not sure where the performance ends.
Leon gives a short laugh, smooth enough to pass in a room filled with men pretending not to notice he has been corrected. “Protective already. That must have been one hell of a night.”
Stefano’s hand slides from my waist to my hip, guiding me closer. “I make good investments.”
I make myself smile.
It costs more than it should.
Leon’s gaze turns to me again, faster this time. Careful. He learned. Not enough, but some. “And you, sweetheart? Adjusting well?”
Every cell in my body wants his blood.
I place my hand on Stefano’s chest instead.
The motion is delicate. Intimate. A lover’s touch, not an agent’s restraint. I feel Stefano glance down at my fingers, and for one vicious second, I hope he understands exactly how much discipline this costs me.
I look up at Leon through my lashes and smile like the woman I am pretending to be.
“He has better manners than the auction promised.”
One of the men near Leon coughs into his drink.
Stefano’s hand tightens on my hip. Both a caution and approval.
Leon’s smile thins. “Sharp mouth.”
Stefano answers before I can. “I enjoy it.”
Heat climbs in my throat. Bastard.
Leon studies him now more than me, which is helpful, though uncomfortable. “You enjoy expensive problems, then.”
“Only when they are worth the price.”
“And was she?”
Stefano looks at me. Not Leon. Me. His thumb moves once against my hip. “More than expected.”
I hate that my body understands the role faster than my mind can reject it. I lean into him because that is what she would do. The purchased woman. The chosen woman. The woman who survived because a monster decided she was worth keeping.
Stefano’s gaze darkens.
For everyone else, it probably looks intimate.
To me, it feels like stepping closer to the edge of a blade sharp enough to cut me open.
We sit as Leon gestures to the booth beside him, I end up beside Stefano, his arm draped along the back of the seat behind me. He doesn’t touch my shoulder at first. He doesn’t need to. The threat of his hand is almost worse than the touch itself.
Drinks arrive. I do not touch mine until Stefano gives the smallest nod. He notices. Leon notices too. Let them see what they expect: a woman controlled enough to obey, attached enough not to resent it, where anyone can use the resentment.
The conversation turns to the raid.
Leon plays irritation well, but not concern. He talks about lost money. Broken trust. Federal interference. Men who got spooked and ran. He doesn’t mention the women who were dragged off that stage. He doesn’t mention the children either. At least, not directly.
“Miami was supposed to be clean,” one of the men says.
“Miami is clean when people respect the rules,” Stefano says.
