Page 10 of The Mastermind (Mafia Rivals #1)

MADDELENA

He shook me once, his brows turning darker shades of black thunder. ‘I asked you a question.’

‘I’m hypoglycaemic.’

Displeasure flattened his mouth. Then he was wrapping his long fingers around my elbow.

Heat sizzled up my skin, the calluses on his fingers, which I knew were derived from his punishing sessions at the gym, snagging decadently on my skin.

‘What are you doing?’ I demanded, hating the slight wobble that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with my hyperawareness of Cesare Salvatore.

‘You were about to have dinner when Fist came to you.’

‘Yeah, so?’ My gaze strayed to the untouched tray set on the cart.

‘I ordered you another meal,’ he said.

I forced a huff, ignoring the curious softening in my belly at the gesture. ‘Do you seriously think I’m going to accept food from you? Or anything else for that matter?’

A furious muscle rippled through his jaw.

‘You need to fucking eat or you’ll pass out and yet you refuse my offer?

’ A hard glint lit his eyes. Then he was marching me across the room.

‘Let me put it another way. You have very little choice, sweetheart. We’re not done talking.

So you either risk passing out and leaving yourself at my mercy to do whatever the fuck I want to you, or you eat the food I ordered for you so we can get to the bottom of what I want to know. ’

He released me once we were at the dining table, but not before I felt his fingers drag down my arm, almost… linger.

I shook my head, sure I was hallucinating the very brief, puzzling caress. Because when I looked at him, his arms were crossed, his face a mask of immovable granite.

‘How do I know this isn’t poisoned?’ I challenged, not heeding the warning to bite my tongue.

‘You’re not important enough for me to go to the trouble,’ he snapped.

Shit, that stung. But I’d stood up to powerful bullies, even when it was ill-advised. Even when it reduced my poor mother to tears and much intercession on my behalf in church.

‘Then what am I doing here? Because the way I see it, I’m the only one you think you can push around and keep what you think is happening a secret. Because what? You think you have some sort of leverage over me?’

In one lithe stride he’d closed the distance between us.

He was tall. So imposing and towering I had to tilt my head up to meet his eyes. Then I was compounding my dire situation by breathing him in.

His scent had changed subtly from when he was a teenager.

The base notes of woodsmoke still lingered, but on top of that, instead of sea breezes, he smelled like furious thunderstorms. The kind that lured you outside, impossible to resist, even though the possibility that you could be struck down by sizzling lightning was real.

‘Not think, sweetheart. I know . I have eyes and ears everywhere. And I know for a fact you haven’t said anything to anyone either, including your own family.

So fuck yes, I have leverage. Which means you’ll give me access to you whenever I want to discuss this.

’ He yanked out a seat without taking his steaming gaze off my face.

‘Now sit down and eat. Because I sure as fuck won’t catch you the next time you swoon like a goddamn Victorian virgin. ’

I cycled through the dozen self-defence moves Sofiya had taught me, then discarded them all one by one.

Cesare Salvatore was twice my size, which in itself wasn’t the problem because the bigger they were the harder they fell, right?

Except I’d seen him in action more times than I cared to remember.

And every one of those times, my stupid brain had inputted the ruthless violence he’d meted out to some poor idiot as well as noting the hypnotic symmetry of movement.

The way he could anticipate and block lines of attack as if he was some kind of sorcerer.

With my weakened state, he would probably laugh his head off if I tried to attack him. Not to mention, Fist was lurking outside.

Either way, I wouldn’t get very far.

So I sat. Plucked the silver cloche off the nearest plate. And barely managed to bite back a groan.

The steak was cooked to perfection. Medium rare with enough hints of pink to remind me I was a failed vegan. The fries were fat and golden. I was startled by the tiny silver container of sea salt sitting next to the plate, though.

Cesare Salvatore knew how I liked my fries?

Unbidden, my gaze slid to his.

He was watching me with the same predatory stillness that sent a few more waves of trepidation through me, mixed with the kind of absurd anticipation one felt at the beginning of a rollercoaster.

Then my belly grumbled loudly at being kept waiting. Face heating and to cover the sound, I picked up the pristine cutlery, sprinkled a pinch of salt over the fries, and dug into the steak.

At my first bite, he pulled out the adjacent seat and sat down. He picked up a bottle of red wine, and when I shook my head, he swapped it for mineral water, which he poured without asking.

‘How long have you suffered with hypoglycaemia?’ he asked after he’d set the glass down next to my plate.

I continued cutting into my steak – which lived up to its promise by tasting obscenely sublime – without looking up. ‘Are we exchanging pleasantries now? After your man rendered my men unconscious instead of doing the civil thing and calling up to my room to ask for this meeting?’

‘Would you have come willingly?’ he countered.

I swallowed without answering because we both knew I wouldn’t.

‘Exactly,’ he muttered. ‘Answer me, Maddelena,’ he breathed after another minute passed.

‘Since I was fourteen,’ I muttered.

His eyes narrowed. ‘That why you were always hanging out with the vending machine at the school cafeteria?’

I forgot to ignore him and blinked in shock. ‘You noticed?’

‘I refer you to my previous statement.’

‘Which one?’ My dizziness from low blood sugar had receded.

A different kind of dizziness – this one a complete byproduct of having him so close, so focused on me, took its place.

‘You claiming to know everything about me – clearly wrong since you didn’t know about the hypoglycemia till now or you having eyes and ears everywhere.

Also false, by the way, or we wouldn’t be here in the first place. ’

He didn’t answer. Merely jerked his head at my plate. A lock of hair fell down his forehead, adding to his scarily hot as hell package. It really wasn’t fucking fair.

I carried on eating until my belly protested its fullness. Then I set down the cutlery. It was the best meal I’d had in a long time, but hell if I was going to disclose that.

‘Any other symptoms besides the dizziness?’

‘What are you, my doctor?’

His nostrils flared, then he drained his glass. ‘I always wondered why El Topo made you his consigliere and not that idiot Stefano. Looks like you have some spine after all, sì ? That should make things… interesting.’

I wanted to snap at him not to call my grandfather that. Nonno had cut off body parts of upstarts who’d dared to use that disparaging nickname. But I didn’t bother. Cesare would probably have been amused by that.

‘Or not, seeing as I don’t plan to be as accommodating next time as I was tonight,’ I replied.

One eyebrow arched, raising his insane hotness several more notches. ‘Wanna place a bet on that?’ he asked.

‘No. I don’t gamble. I make accurate calculations that reap substantial benefits.’

I dabbed the corners of my mouth with the starched napkin and dropped it next to my plate. Now I had nothing to occupy my hands with or keep my gaze distracted, compulsion dragged my focus back to him.

‘Then tell me, in your calculations , who in your opinion is the mole? Which one of your employees is stupid enough to have weaselled their way into my team to feed you information, Maddelena?’

I pushed the chair back and rose, telling myself walking across the room to snatch up the purse that had fallen during my dizzy spell wasn’t putting vital distance between us.

Ping .

My heart stuttered. With very few friends – none who would contact me out of the blue especially knowing it was a race weekend – the only people who would try to reach me was my family. My fingers moved to the clutch’s opening only to see Cesare plucking his own phone from his pocket.

Ping .

He read the screen and displeasure spasmed across his face.

‘You should see to that,’ I said, forcing my feet towards the door.

Still sitting, he pivoted towards me, his gaze slowly sweeping my body. ‘You know if I don’t get a name, I’ll have no choice but to put you in my crosshairs, right?’

Why the hell did that low-voiced threat make my nipples hard? Light a fire so deep in my pelvis I had to clench my thighs and withhold a moan?

‘Give it up, Salvatore. All that’s happening here is you’re being beaten at your own game. I know it’s hard when you discover not everyone is an adoring fan, ready to drop to their knees for you and your overblown ego.’

Ping .

He ignored this one, rising to approach where I stood. ‘Oh, you’ll end up on your knees one way or the other, Maddelena. And since I’m a betting man, I’m willing to place a wager on you absolutely gagging for that when it happens.’ He jerked his chin at the door. ‘Fist will drive you back.’

Almost on cue, the door opened behind me, the giant soldier waiting with his long arms crossed in front of him.

He was dismissing me like I was a common little nobody. Much the same way he’d done back in high school for years. Until that night.

I watched his broad back and the ripple of muscles beneath his shirt as he scooped up his phone and activated it. Did he remember every detail of that night like I did? Or did he dwell only on the violent parts?

What the fuck did it matter?

I followed Fist back down the hallway and into the lift. Again, he ignored me, his long no-nonsense strides when we reached the lobby telling me he wanted this task to be over almost as much as I did.

My insides churned, fuelled by disgruntlement and anger and weird arousal.

Just to be contrary, and to claw back some power, dammit , I changed course and stopped at the front desk.

The receptionist looked up with a bright smile that wavered a little when she saw me.

Whether she recognised me, or if it was due to the unholy light probably burning in my eyes, I shrugged it off.

‘I’ve just had a room service meal delivered to the Presidential Suite. Can you tell me what the charge is, please?’ I asked, aware of Fist hovering three feet away.

She blinked, then frowned as she tapped the keyboard. ‘Umm, including the red wine, a charge of six hundred and sixty-seven US dollars has been added to the room bill.’

There was nothing special about a billionaire mobster buying me a five-hundred-dollar steak.

Both our families were obscenely rich, and I was used to the finer things in life.

And yet, I couldn’t stop my belly fluttering in secret, unwanted delight.

Cesare could’ve insulted me with a shoe-leather-textured twenty-dollar steak and a withered salad without breaking a sweat. He hadn’t. Because…?

I shook my head and slid my black Amex Centurion across the counter. ‘Charge it to my card, please.’

‘Oh… but?—’

‘Can you do it right away, please. I’m in a hurry.’

With a puzzled nod, she hit a few more keys then put through the transaction. I slid my card back into my purse. ‘Can I borrow a paper and pen?’ When she handed the items over, I scribbled my note and folded the paper. ‘Have this delivered to the suite’s occupant, if you don’t mind.’

She took it, placing it on a tiny tray. Her gaze darted to Fist and she swallowed before nodding. ‘Of course, madam. Right away.’

I rode the wave of triumph all the way back to my hotel and long past changing and sliding into bed with a tiny smile on my face.

Then I felt it all crumble when less than an hour later, I heard a noise at the door. Sliding out of bed, I approached cautiously to find an envelope lying on the polished hardwood floor. Trepidation moving through me, I picked it up and opened it.

Something fluttered to the floor, but I was more caught up with reading the words within the folded piece of paper.

The note I’d written, so neatly and concisely, mocked me.

I don’t accept free meals from Salvatores. I pay for my own dinner.

Because beneath it, scrawled untidily yet bold and dominating, was Cesare’s response.

Too bad. Your payment has been reversed. See receipt. And my advice? For your own sake, don’t ever fucking try this again.

I snatched the receipt from the floor and bunched both scraps of paper in my fist, torn between feeling thwarted and excited at the thought of future interactions.

Tossing it away, I stalked back to bed and yanked the cover up to my chin.

Glaring at the ceiling, I vowed that the next time I clashed with Cesare Salvatore, I would come out on top.

And stay on top.