Page 17 of Texting My Mafia Boss

“I stand by my decision,” I say. “But I could’ve gone about it in a better way.”

He smirks again. I look at his crotch, which is eye level, just for a moment. Is he—? I must be imagining the bulge, right? There’s no way he’s hard for me in broad daylight on his front lawn.

Sitting, he runs a hand through his thick hair. “You’re something else, Mara,” he says gruffly.

“Because I’m not scared if you go all tough guy on me?”

I need to rein in my mouth. I need this job.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice tight. “Remember your place.”

That riles me up almost more than I can take. I open my mouth, probably to say something that would ruin my career here.

“Remember Sylvie,” he says.

That takes the wind out of my sails. If I push this man too far, I won’t be able to help with his daughter and she has to come first in all this.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Finally,” he grunts.

“You don’t have to be like that.”

“I can be any way I want,” he grunts, looking at me with tension all over his face and body.

“Yes, youcan. But you don’t have to be. I’m sorry for the way I did it, but look at that drawing, Etto… Mr. Bellandi.”

“I run a conglomerate with more businesses than most people could ever understand,” he says fiercely. “Real estate, entertainment, wealth management, security. Every day, I’ve got a thousand fires to put out. I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are,” I say, placing my hand on the table.

He looks at it for a moment. Then he slides his across and takes it.Thiscan’t be an accident. He’s holding my hand, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. Hot flames burn up my arm, and through my body.

I squeeze my legs together under the table… which is silly. I’m not some lust-wild woman. Never have been. But I do it anyway.

“Do you, Mara? Do you know the weight I carry?”

“Y-yes,” I mutter, annoyed at myself for the stutter.

“Your hand is so warm,” he growls. “So fucking hot.”

Oh my God. Every inch of me is screaming out for this man, for him to keep going down this track, however complicated it would become.

“Is it?” I whimper.

“It’s like you’re boiling inside,” he groans.

“It’s a hot day.”

He looks at me seriously. “It’s not that hot.”

I shake my head.

“Why are you shaking your head like that?” he demands, voice huskily.

“I don’t know.” My voice comes out all breathy. “I just—Ettore, I don’t know.”

“I love the way you say my name, Mara. Really love it.”