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“I see you agree with me,” he grumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched.He gestured toward her plate.“Eat, Cata.And tell me your favorite food.”
She fiddled with her fork again.“I’m not sure what my favorite would be.”
“Because your father made you starve yourself?”
Her eyes darted to his, startled that he’d nailed the truth so easily.He shook his head, muttering, “I think you’re beautiful, but you’re too thin.You’re not getting enough nutrients.And no muscle tone.”His gaze flicked to her arms, then he grunted.“We’ll fix that starting tomorrow morning in the gym.”
“In the gym?”she gasped, horrified.“But…!”
“You’re going to learn self-defense,” he said firmly.“I’ll protect you, but you’re going to get stronger.So you can knee your father in the balls if he ever comes near you again.”
The scandalized look on her face was so comical that she snorted out a laugh before she could stop herself.Then she slapped her hand over her mouth again, wide-eyed.
He arched a dark brow.“You don’t want to knee him?I’m telling you—it’s the most non-lethal pain you could inflict on a man.It’s…” He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, his mouth quirking.“It’s miserable.”
Her laughter bubbled up, and she leaned toward him with a sparkle in her eyes.“Who kneed you?”
He chuckled, shaking his head.“Not important.”
She grinned back, and he shot her a glare meant to intimidate.But this time, she didn’t lower her lashes.She held his gaze, steady and unflinching, and the heat of it sent a curl of satisfaction through his gut.There it was—the steel under all that prettiness.
“So,” he pressed, tone casual, “favorite food?”
“I suppose…potato chips,” she admitted, her hesitation obvious.
“Good choice.Mine is ice cream.”His voice dropped a little, thoughtful.“No, brownies.”He frowned, reconsidering.“Actually, anything sweet.Cookies.”He jabbed his fork at her.“Especially oatmeal raisin.Love them.”
Her lips twitched.“A mafia boss with a sweet tooth.That’s shocking.”
“Why?”
“In my experience, mafia men don’t admit to any weaknesses.They’d consider it…well, a weakness.”
He grunted, almost amused.“I have a lot of weaknesses.”Then his gaze hardened, sweeping back to her bowl.“Eat more, or you don’t get dessert.”
Her laugh startled him—it was rusty, raw, as though dragged up from some locked box inside her.It wasn’t polished, wasn’t pretty, and it hit him in the chest like a punch.
“So maybe,” he said slowly, savoring the moment, “you should give me your cell phone number.”
Her fork froze.Carefully, she set it down, and he instantly knew he’d stumbled onto another minefield.
“I…don’t have a cell phone.”She didn’t look at him—her eyes darted anywhere else, the stove, the sink, the corner of the counter.
“Your father didn’t want you to have one, eh?”Sal leaned back, unconcerned.“Probably for the best.He’d have slapped a tracker on it.”He dragged her plate toward him and began twirling her pasta with deliberate calm.“It’s what I would have done.”
“You’d secretly track me?”Her gasp was sharp, her anger a spark of fire in her eyes.
He tilted his head, voice soft but steady.“Not secretly.Not for nefarious purposes,cara.But yes.When I give you a phone, it will have GPS.So I can find you.If I’m worried.”
Her chin lifted, defiant.“Or if I’m having an affair?”
His grin was slow, dangerous.“Cata, once we start having sex, you won’tneedanyone else.And once you’re comfortable, I’ll make sure you neverwantanyone else.”He rinsed the plates as if he hadn’t just promised her captivity disguised as pleasure.“Now.Favorite color?”
She hesitated, then murmured, “Lavender.”
Lie.He knew it instantly, the way she ducked her gaze, the faint pause before the word left her lips.She’d chosen it because it was safe, because it was meaningless.
He sighed inwardly.His little wife wasn’t confident around him.Yet.Whatever her father had done to her, it had left scars.
