The Mafia King’s Doll

Tori

After I light the two candles, I quickly shut the curtains so the room will be darker.

I turn to look at the intimate corner of the dining room table, and happy that it looks romantic, I hurry back to the kitchen.

I want tonight to be special for Angelo. It’s my way of making an effort to get closer to him.

I’ve prepared baked eggplant with melted parmesan and roasted duck with blackberry-orange sauce.

Before Rita left, she showed me the wine cellar and helped me pair the perfect bottle with our dinner.

I take the chilled Romanee-Conti from the fridge, and grabbing the corkscrew, I try to figure out how the gadget works.

“Need some help?” Angelo suddenly says behind me.

“God!” I let out a startled chuckle, then mutter, “Please.”

I wish the man would make a sound so I hear when he enters a room. I hand him the bottle and corkscrew.

He checks the label. “Nice choice.”

“Rita helped me choose the wine,” I mention as my gaze drifts over the faded blue jeans and white T-shirt he’s wearing.

My eyes stop on his bare feet, and I can almost imagine he’s just an ordinary man.

But that’s the furthest thing from the truth.

My attention is drawn to his strong hands as he twists the cork out of the bottle, and I admire the veins snaking up his arms.

The cork pops out, and he hands the bottle back to me. “What else can I do?”

I shake my head. “You can take a seat at the dining room table.”

I follow him out of the kitchen, and I notice the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. It makes me remember who Angelo is.

Entering the dining room, he looks at the candlelit dinner I’ve prepared, and I try to gauge his reaction.

His eyes flick to me as he sits down, then he asks, “Are we celebrating something?”

I pour some wine before taking a seat to his left. “I just wanted to do something special for you.”

His hand covers mine, and he gives me a squeeze. “Thank you, mia piccola cerviatta.”

As I place a couple of slices of the roasted duck and some of the eggplant parmesan on his plate, I ask, “Why do you call me your little deer?”

I’m not fluent in Italian, but I know enough to understand the term of endearment.

“You’re skittish like one.”

I load some food into my plate, then look at him as he takes a bite. Everything in me stills as I watch him closely.

His eyes drift shut, and he lets out a groan. “Christ, the duck melts in my mouth.” He opens his eyes and bathes me with a look of pride. “You should’ve become a chef.”

Happy because he likes the food, I smile like an idiot.

A frown line forms between his eyes. “Is that something you’d like to do?”

“What?” I cut a small piece of duck. “A chef?” Popping the bite into my mouth, I begin to enjoy my meal.

“Yes.”

I shake my head. “I love baking and cooking, but it’s a relaxing hobby.” Taking the chance that’s been presented to me, I say, “I wanted to ask you something.”

He nods as he continues to eat.

“I’d like to attend Mass Sunday morning.”

His eyes lock with mine, and my stomach drops.

Angelo takes a sip of his wine before he says, “I don’t expect you to change your routine, Vittoria. You can continue with your church duties.”

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I let out a relieved breath, which he notices.

Reaching a hand out to my face, he tucks a curl behind my ear. “Unless you plan on doing something out of the norm, you don’t have to ask my permission.”

“Okay.”

“Just don’t leave the house without Tiny.”

I nod and glance at my plate. “Ah…can I also continue to make food for Father Parisi?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Of course.”

Feeling relieved, I eat in silence for a minute before I think to ask, “How was your day?”

Angelo clears his throat. “Do you really want to know?”

Right. Do I want to hear about all the people he tortured and killed?

But he’s my husband. If I’m going to learn to love him, I’ll have to accept what he does for a living.

I take a deep breath before I nod.

He lifts an eyebrow at me, then says, “I spent most of my day at the shipping yard. It was actually boring.”

That’s not what I expected to hear.

“Why were you at a shipping yard?”

“I own a fleet that transports illegal goods worldwide.”

Nodding, I take another sip of my wine. “How many businesses do you have?”

“Three. Piccola Sicilia, Fallen Angels, and the fleet.” He seems to relax as the conversation grows more comfortable. “But I spend most of my time at the club.”

Not knowing much about Fallen Angels except that Giorgio loves to go there, I ask, “I’m assuming Friday nights are busy at the club. Are you going there after dinner?”

He shakes his head. “I have someone who manages everything.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a hot grin. “I’m yours for the weekend.”

He’s mine.

The words hit me right in the heart, and I quickly drink the rest of my wine.

“Before I forget,” Angelo says while relaxing back in his chair, “We’re taking a trip to Sicily soon. Do you have a passport?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“We’ll get you one.”

Are we going on our honeymoon?

Excitement bubbles in my chest. “Why are we going to Sicily?”

“I have business to take care of, and I want you to meet my family.”

Crap.

I didn’t even consider Angelo’s family. Instantly, nerves tighten in my stomach.

“I took over from my uncle, but he’s still involved in the business. He runs things on my behalf in Sicily,” Angelo informs me. “He’ll be happy to hear I finally got married.”

I twirl the wine glass around and around as I nod to show I’m listening. “When we’re visiting with them, don’t worry if they bring up the topic

of heirs.”

My eyes dart to his. “I won’t mind if they do.”

“I don’t want you to feel pressured about having children.”

I let out an awkward chuckle. “I’m not on birth control, and you took off the condom the other night.”

His eyes narrow on me. “Does that bother you?” I quickly shake my head. “No. We’re married.”

“Giorgio mentioned you want to be a mother,” he says.

God. I haven’t even thought of Giorgio since the wedding. It sucks that he doesn’t even check to see if I’m okay.

“Yes, I’ve always wanted children of my own.”

I just never thought it would be with Angelo Rizzo.

My gaze drifts over his face, and I wonder whether he’ll be a good father.

“If it will make you happy, then we won’t start you on birth control.”

The corner of my mouth lifts at the thought of holding a baby in my arms. “It will make me very happy.”

Angelo reaches for my arm and trails his fingers over my skin. Goosebumps rise beneath his touch, and he looks fascinated by my reaction to him.

When his fingers trail over the back of my hand, I turn my palm up and close my fingers around his. Angelo’s eyes snap to my face, and I feel a fluttering sensation in my stomach.

Gathering my courage, I admit, “I really want our marriage to be a success.”

His features soften, and for the first time, I see affection in his eyes. “I want that too, mia piccola cerviatta.”

The sensation grows until it feels like my stomach is doing cartwheels. “You’ll have to change your nickname for me soon,” I tease him.

“Why?”

“I’m only skittish around new people.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Does that mean you’re getting used to me?”

My thumb brushes over his golden skin. “Yes.”

“That’s good to hear.” His tone is low and intimate, causing tingles to spread over my body.

I take a deep breath then look at our empty plates. “Are you ready for dessert?”

“There’s dessert?”

Smiling at him, I pull my hand free from his and start clearing the table. Angelo gets up as well and helps me carry everything to the kitchen.

When I open the fridge to take out the strawberries and freshly whipped cream, I ask, “Are you allergic to anything.”

“No.” Instead of returning to the dining room, he takes a seat at the island. “Do you have any allergies?”

I shake my head, and placing the dessert on the marble top, I say, “It’s nothing elaborate. I wanted to stick with the fruit theme.”

Just like the night before, Angelo pats his jean-clad thigh. “Come sit here.”

My face heats as I sit on his lap, and I wrap my left arm around his neck.

This position is so freaking intimate.

He picks up a strawberry and scoops some cream onto it before bringing it to my mouth.

My heartbeat speeds up, and I part my lips to take a bite. As soon as my teeth sink into the strawberry, Angelo orders, “Hold still.”

Why?

He leans closer, and tilting his head, he bites into the other half. I feel the brush of his lips for a split-second, turning my emotions into a chaotic

mess.

Holy freaking crap.

I feel lightheaded from the intensity of the light touch.

Our eyes lock, and I wonder what it would feel like to kiss Angelo.

He’s already swallowed his bite when he chuckles, “Eat the fruit, la mia tentatrice.”

I beg to differ. I’m the one who’s tempted by the devil.