Page 18 of Owned by the Italian Mafia Boss

“Thank you, Marie. It looks wonderful, as always.”

“Of course, Mr. Milazzo. I’ll be right back with your drinks. A nice simple sweet tea.”

She hurries away in her apron, vanishing into the kitchen. I pick up my fork, but my appetite has vanished. How am I supposed to eat when my freedom is on a timer? I’m about to be shackled.

“You need to eat everything on your plate.” He points to my food with his fork.

“How do you expect me to eat when we have so much to discuss?”

Marie takes that moment to return with our drinks before disappearing into the kitchen again.

“Don’t worry about Marie overhearing anything. She knows not to say a word. She’s trustworthy,” he explains.

“I’m not worried about her.” I push the pasta around, and with a clatter of his fork, he drags me closer to him, the legs of the chair rubbing against the floor.

Next, he grabs my plate to bring it closer. “If I have to feed you myself, I will, Sweetling.”

“I’ll eat after we sign the contract,” I say, anxiety twisting my stomach. I don’t know what a contract is supposed to look like, or what to expect. How do I know he won’t be asking for more than he’s already asking for?

What else is there to give?

“You’ll eat now.” He stabs a piece of broccoli from his plate and begins to eat.

“Carmine, please, I’m too nervous.” I decide to answer honestly, wanting him to hear just how scared I am.

He swirls the pasta and lifts the fork in the air, bringing it to my lips. “There’s no need to be nervous. I’m going to take care of you. Now, open.”

“You aren’t feeding me.”

“I will if you won’t eat. I won’t have you starve, or worse. Now.” He leans forward; the shadow of his body covering his plate. “Open.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Then stop acting ridiculous and open your fucking mouth.” He doesn’t say it with harshness but with want instead.

I part my lips and sit completely still.

“Good girl,” he praises, pushing the fork between my lips.

The flavor of the perfectly seasoned cream sauce bursts over my tongue. I moan as I chew, my stomach awakening with hunger again and my nerves settling. I reach for my fork, but his hand falls over mine stopping me.

Without a word or explanation, he wraps the pasta around the fork and lifts it to my mouth again.

Confused, I open my mouth. I want to ask him why he’s doing this, but I know he won’t answer.

“You like being taken care of,” he says, staring at me with that familiar hard edge he shows all his enemies.

“Who doesn’t?” I retort and dab my mouth with my napkin. “Everyone likes to be pampered.”

I reach for my glass of tea and take a few sips. The. tea is sweet and refreshing. “Who doesn’t?” I retort and dab my mouth with my napkin. “Everyone likes to be pampered.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree.” He stabs a piece of broccoli and holds it in the air.

“I’m not the biggest fan of broccoli.”

“That’s too bad. You need your vegetables.”

With a roll of my eyes, I zip my lips and place my hands on my lap. “I’m not twelve, Carmine. I won’t grow if I eat my greens.”