Page 18 of Mafia Darling

“Careful,” I leaned in to say. “I like when you show spirit, dolcezza.”

She edged as far away from me as the handcuffs allowed and closed her eyes. “Noted. I won’t do it again.”

I decided not to push it. Not until the doctor examined her and declared that she and the baby were unharmed. Only then could I bring Francesca around. In the end, I would win this battle of wills.

She looked good. Even better than I remember. No baby bump yet, but her tits were bigger, her skin glowing. I wanted her so badly that my teeth ached with it.

I shifted in my seat and tried to concentrate on tonight. I needed to deal with Enzo. Marco and Giulio were on the yacht, bringing him to the castello dungeon, where I planned to keep him for a long time. No easy death awaited Enzo. He had dared to kidnap my woman and blackmail me. I had a feeling La Provencia would have something to say about this retribution against another clan, but I didn’t care. The other ’ndrina bosses hadn’t seen their woman on her knees, tied up with a gun shoved in her mouth. No, Enzo would remain my prisoner until I tired of torturing him.

When we finally touched down in Siderno, I led her to the waiting Range Rover and helped her up. She didn’t speak, her movements sluggish. The car drove away from the landing strip and I pulled out my phone. After ordering the doctor to the castello, I called Marco.

“Where are you?” I asked, anxious to get started.

“We should arrive by early morning,” my cousin said.

I tapped my fingers on my knee. I should have brought Enzo on the plane with me. It would have been faster. But I’d wanted to protect Francesca from him. “Keep me updated throughout the night. I’ll be awake.”

I hung up before he could chastise me about sleeping. I didn’t want to hear it.

The castello’s front door opened as soon as we pulled into the drive. Zia stood there, watching as the SUV rolled to a stop. I helped Francesca to the ground and took her hand like we weren’t still cuffed together. We climbed the steps and Zia barely stepped back to allow us inside.

My aunt placed both hands on Francesca’s face and began speaking rapidly in Italian. “Thank God that He has spared you a terrible fate. And the baby! You must rest, beautiful girl.”

“Okay, I caught most of that, I think,” Francesca said with a weary laugh. “Ciao, Zia.”

Zia kissed both her cheeks. “Do not put Fausto through such agony again, please.” Holding up Francesca’s wrist, she snapped at me, “Unlock her, you pig.”

I retrieved the key and removed the handcuffs. Zia took Francesca’s hand and began leading her toward the kitchen. “The doctor is coming to check her,” I called out to my aunt.

“He will have to wait. She is too thin and the baby needs food to stay healthy.”

I followed. Though I needed to shower, I didn’t trust Francesca not to bolt out the back door. She’d done it once before. I would need to put guards on her at all times. Until Marco returned and could organize security for her, I had to stay close.

When I entered the kitchen, Zia was placing a plate of chicken, roasted potatoes and asparagus in front of Francesca. There was a bottle of sparkling water on the counter. I reached for it and Zia smacked my hand. “That is not for you.”

“Dai, old woman. I am the one who rescued her.”

“And you are also the one who drove her away.”

“I love when Zia yells at you,” Francesca said. “Because you deserve it.”

I dropped onto the stool next to Francesca and suppressed a groan. My back hurt and I think there were deep scrapes across my ribs. “May I also have a plate?” I asked Zia.

She ignored me. Instead she cut a slice of walnut cake and put it beside Francesca’s dinner. Sighing, I rose and fixed a plate of food for myself. When I returned to my seat, I scowled at Zia. “You are forgetting who helped you when Zio Dario passed.”

“Your father, as I recall. You were busy with your women and rising through the ranks.”

Not true. My father planned to pawn Zia off on Marco’s father until I intervened. I’d always liked her best growing up, constantly clinging to her as a small boy after my mother died. If not for me, Zia would be living in a tiny house fifteen miles away in the middle of nowhere.

Now ravenous, I started eating. After a few bites, I noticed that Francesca was picking at her food. Zia was at the stove, stirring soup, so I leaned over and asked quietly, “Do you not like it?”

“I feel sick to my stomach, but I don’t want to hurt Zia’s feelings.”

“Eat what you can. I will make sure Zia understands.”

She lifted a piece of chicken to her mouth, but quickly recoiled, her face turning white. I took the fork out of her hand and set it down. “So you don’t feel up to eating chicken. Is it the taste?”

“The taste, the smell. The look of it. In fact, the only thing I want to eat right now is the cake.”

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