Page 71 of Dirty Mafia King

What the heck—might as well tell him. “I purchased a dress.”

“That right?” All the air seems to escape the room. “Let’s see it.”

I nearly fall off the chair.

“Show me.” He stands and then stalks toward the door, fully expecting me to follow him.

And I do. Because I really don’t have a choice, do I?

We walk side by side to the casita in silence. “My gown’s hanging inside the closet in the bedroom,” I say in a rush after we enter the living area. “Let me get it.”

“Put it on.”

I miss a step, and nearly tumble.

“Dai. Just do it.”

I race into the bedroom, strip, and then step into the gown. The back hangs open, so he’ll have to zip it up.

OrI face him the entire time.

Lord, why is he making me do this?

“Do I have to come in there?”

Tears spill as I hastily smooth the long skirt into place. I dressed up as a bride once when I was a little girl. I wore my sister’s communion dress, my mother’s white pumps several sizes too big for my small feet, and a sparkling tiara I borrowed from a doll. My mother was delighted. “One day, you’ll stand before the man you’ll marry and he’ll weep when he sees how beautiful you are in your wedding dress.”

Now look who’s crying.

And Bastian isn’t even the man I’m marrying. Yet he gets to see me first in my gown.

My mother’s dreams were ruined by my father’s ambition, with me stuck somewhere in the middle. I wipe the moisture from my eyes and straighten my shoulders. My happiness is in the hands of the man waiting in the great room.

Calming my nerves, I leave my bedroom.

He’s sprawled on the sofa with a drink in his hand. His eyes rake over me, yet his expression gives nothing away.

Does he think I’m beautiful?

Or am I simply a distraction from his work?

He motions for me to turn.

I spin, then breathlessly wait for him to order me closer so he can zip up my dress.

For what feels like eternity, he stares at me. Until my palms are clammy and nerves shattered. No shocking comments? No filthy words as he orders me about? No teasing me or tempting me into reprehensible acts?

My eyes prick with unshed tears. The difference is that frustration fuels them instead of sadness.

What could he possibly be thinking?

“Nonna is returning to Italy.”

I jerk back, surprised. Of all the things I imagined he might be thinking, this wasn’t one.

“Her sister is ill, and she wants to be by her side.”

“Oh no.” I clasp my hands. “Poor Nonna. So that’s what’s been bothering her? She seemed sad lately.”