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“I’m not going to—“
“Sit. Down.Don’t make me say it again.”
She approaches cautiously, glancing back like she expects a bullet between her shoulder blades. I pull the cart to her side and sit on the mattress. She positions herself against the headboard, legs crossed with a pillow covering them—whatever barrier she can create.
I lift the covers. Rosaria’s outdone herself—steamingZuppa di Pomodorowith grilled cheese, steak and mashed potatoes, roasted veggies, and gelato for dessert. Water and green juice to wash it down—her silent concern.
“Prefer wine?”
“No. This is fine.”
I balance the soup bowl on the pillow in front of her. She hesitates, eyes never leaving mine, searching for the trick.
“Now eat.”
“And you?”
“You made it clear you don’t want to eat with me.”
“So you’re just going to watch?”
“I am.” Nothing would please me more than seeing her devour this food. If it’s not enough, I’ll have more made. That’s how fucking generous I feel tonight.
“That’s creepy.” She lifts the spoon with visibly shaking hands.
“I can leave, but there’s a fork and steak knife on this cart. I’m not risking you hiding one to stab me in the eye.”
“You think I’m strong enough to fight? I’m exhausted.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Smart. That’s exactly what I thought when I saw the knife.” She dips her spoon into the soup.
The moment it touches her tongue, her eyes close, and she moans softly, shoulders sagging with pure pleasure. She savors it, and I swear color returns to her face instantly.
I watch, transfixed, as she takes another spoonful. Christ. Better than any high or orgasm—seeing her savor every bite, cheeks flushing with warmth, tension easing from her face.
Those lips curve slightly as she swirls soup in her mouth, tongue catching stray drops. Her eyes flutter closed in bliss, lashes brushing against skin like she’s forgotten everything but this moment of pleasure.
Something lights up in my chest as I reach for the steak plate. Feeding this woman, watching her come alive through something as simple as a meal—it’s become my mission.
There’s an intimacy to it, giving her something she desperately needs but refuses to ask for. I’d kill for that look on her face again—seeing her lose herself in a moment of peace.
“Good?”
She nods silently, dipping grilled cheese into soup. I slice the steak so she won’t have to struggle with it. “Can I ask my questions now?”
She shrugs, still chewing. I reach behind me, hand sliding to my waistband. My fingers wrap around cold metal as I pull it out slowly, making sure she notices.
Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t stop eating. I set the gun on the mattress between us. The silver gleams in the light, red fleur-de-lis almost winking.
“What’s this? Last meal before execution?”
“I’m not going to kill you. But the Commission might.”
“You’re part of the Commission. What makes you different?”
“You’re part of it too. Your mother was Isabella Russo—a legend.”