Page 65 of The Beast Who Bought Me
She crosses her arms. “You keep the good Lord’s name out of your mouth, and tell me: What. Are you doing. In my kitchen?”
I flash her my most charming smile. “Looking for you, ma’am. Damiano’s bandage bled through. I thought you might want to take a look.”
The smile slides off her like she’s Teflon. Her expression doesn’t soften one degree. In fact, she gives me the kind of once-over that makes me feel like something she scraped off her shoe. “You made a mess,” she says, pointing at the sauce on the floor. “Clean it up.”
“I…uh, sure.” I grab some paper towels from the counter and crouch down. But as I wipe up the spill, the robe I’m wearing falls open at my chest. When I glance up, she’s still watching me. Her face gives nothing away, but she turns abruptly, muttering something under her breath that doesn’t sound complimentary.
“Dami’s still asleep,” I say as I finish cleaning. I use the too-cute nickname to make my story more convincing. “I didn’t want towake him. But like I said, he’s bleeding again. So I wanted to make sure someone checked on him later.”
She grunts, noncommittal. “Let the man sleep.”
I straighten and toss the paper towels in the trash. Rosa has already turned back to the stove, stirring her pot with a new spoon like I’m not worth her attention.
“If you’re going to make a nuisance of yourself,” she says without looking up, “sit there.” She nods toward the counter. “Out of my way.”
I slide onto the stool, folding my arms on the cool marble countertop. “Is that for lunch?”
“Dinner.”
“It smells incredible.” She doesn’t respond, but I catch the slight flare of her nostrils. “Can I make an espresso on the coffee machine?”
“No.”
I sigh.
She sighs back, grabs a cup, and turns on the machine. The sound of beans grinding fills the silence between us, and then she makes me an espresso, the smell rich and promising.
“Flattery won’t work,” she says as she slides the cup to me. “Not on me. And not on him.”
Damiano, I assume she means. I take a sip of the espresso. It’s perfect—strong enough to wake the dead, smooth enough to make me moan. “You say that, but here I am with the best coffee in Turtle Bay.”
She almost—almost—smiles. She doesn’t correct me on the area, either. She goes back to her work and I rest my chin on my hand, watching as she twists off a handful of basil and gets out a new cutting board. She moves as briskly as she speaks, but she hasn’t kicked me out yet.
I sip my coffee, trying to find a way through her defenses. “Is Dami a good employer?”
Her knife hits the cutting board hard, chopping herbs like she’s got a problem with them.
I try again. “Have you worked for him long?”
Her hands pause. Something vulnerable crosses her face.
“The old Don,” she says, “after my husband was killed protecting him, I cooked and cleaned house for him. The new Don…he didn’t want to keep me on.”
“So Damiano took you in?”
She glares at me. “It’s not charity. He gave mework. I work hard for him.” Her voice drops. “When I had nothing left, he made me family.”
Family. Not employer and employee. Not master and servant. Family.
I wonder if Damiano feels the same.
“What about his driver?” I ask.
“What about him?” she returns coldly.
“He’s pretty quiet, huh?”
That gets a reaction. Her face tightens, and she sets down the knife. “Vito was the old Don’s driver,” she says. “The FBI visited him for questioning. They wanted him to talk. About the Family. About the business. He used a razor blade to cut out his tongue.”
