Page 79 of Dirty Mafia King

She returns with salad prongs. Hand shaking, she dishes out a healthy portion of greens.

I wait until she’s finished, then say, “Three tablespoons of dressing.”

Her eyebrows pitch.

Yet, she does as asked, measuring out exactly three tablespoons of homemade balsamic vinaigrette—another favorite.

I take a bite and close my eyes. Is salad supposed to taste this good?

When I open them, she’s arranged spicy ham, provolone chunks, marinated red peppers, and two deviled eggs on my small plate.

Still, I’m a dick. “You forgot the salami.”

She stiffens. “I don’t recall Nonna dishing out appetizers.”

“She doesn’t. You do.”

I fight off a smile while she spears several slices like she’s some warrior princess, with so much force, she has to pluck the salami off the prongs with her fingers.

With a sigh, she moves to the stove, and I focus on my food.

Believe it or not, but deviled eggs are a lost art. Old-fashioned, some might say, though never to my face. Ordering them out isn’t an option—something so seemingly simple prepared incorrectly can cause salmonella poisoning for weeks. Nonna prepared them once, using mayonnaise without adding the spicy mustard kick.

I bite into one, and my taste buds go fucking wild. Yeah, they’re as tasty as they look, with hints of mustard and … is that pickle juice? I’ve devoured six before she returns.

She smiles, pleased I like her eggs.

“Keep still or I’ll spill the platter,” she informs me, then leans forward, her breast bumping my upper arm as she places the dish on the table.

My cock hardens at the brief contact, and my stomach rumbles. The lamb smells fucking wonderful, and I’m in sensory overload paradise.

She serves me two slices, and one more rub.

Suddenly, I’m considering eating something creamier than deviled eggs.

Madonna mia. I don’t eat pussy. Ever. “Go.”

She freezes against me. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“But I haven’t put out the asparagus…” She inhales sharply. “This dinner was meant as a thank-you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Disappointment fills her eyes. Little Miss Michelin Chef gets off on cooking for me, doesn’t she? Conspiring with Freido, hours over a hot stove, polishing my great-grandmother’s goddamn silverware.She likes pleasing me.

And damn if I don’t fucking relish the idea.

“You can thank me on your wedding night,” I mutter.

She looks thunderstruck. And then angry.

And then so positively furious, she storms out the kitchen door with the oven mitt clenched in her hand.

CHAPTER29

ALESSIA