Page 19 of Mafia Darling

Standing, I took our two dinner plates and moved them to the sink. Then I handed the cake platter to Francesca and stuck a fork in the top. Her brows knitted in confusion. “You’re giving me the whole cake?”

Instead of answering, I lifted her off the stool and into my arms, cake and all. “Send the doctor to my room,” I told Zia. “Francesca doesn’t feel well.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Francesca

He was carrying me through the house. I tried not to think about how good it felt for Fausto to touch me, the warmth of his chest surrounding me after all this time. That was a slippery slope, and no way was I signing up to take that ride again.

My body’s reaction to him annoyed me. “Put me down,” I snapped. “You’re still covered in blood and sweat.”

“No.”

I thought about smashing this cake in his face, but decided not to. While I would find it satisfying, it was a waste of great cake.

When we reached the top of the stairs, he turned left instead of right, walking toward his wing of the castello. “Where are you going? You went the wrong way.”

“You are staying with me from now on.”

The absolute nerve. “I want my own room, Fausto.”

“You will stay in here with me.”

God, no. Please, anything but that. Being close to him, smelling him. There would be no reprieve from my long-buried feelings. I grabbed the fork out of the top of the cake and held it up like a weapon. “My own room, or I swear to God I will poke your eye out.”

The side of his mouth hitched as he shoved the door open with his shoulder. “There is my bloodthirsty dolcezza.”

I slipped the fork back in the cake and went quiet. Damn it. I had to remember he got off on my spirit and sass. If I remained blank, an empty shell he couldn’t play with or bait, he’d grow bored. He’d realize he didn’t want to be a father at his age. Then he would let me go.

He carefully placed me on his bed, arranging me on the pillows. Then he picked up the house phone and began giving rapid orders about the doctor’s imminent arrival, but I tuned him out. The smell of him permeated the room, so familiar and sexy. I’d almost forgotten it, the combination of oranges and spice and raw power. The man was a walking aphrodisiac—and I hated that he still affected me.

Miserable, I grabbed the fork and started on the cake. The moist, nutty flavor and creamy icing melted on my tongue. My God, that was good. I closed my eyes, wishing I could have Zia in my life without Fausto. Everyone needed a Zia who baked like this.

When my lids opened, I saw Fausto staring at me like I was his walnut cake. Hungry and desperate, a man on the edge of his control. I took another bite and let myself enjoy it, just to antagonize him. Look at what you can’t have, I told him silently as I licked icing off the fork.

Suddenly, he gave a devious twist of his lips. Reaching for the hem of his shirt, he began to pull upward. The fork paused halfway to my mouth. Was he . . . ?

His t-shirt slid slowly up his body, higher and higher, revealing his flat stomach and the treasure trail I’d once licked. Then ribs and pecs, more clearly defined than I remembered, and his wide chest bisected with dark hair. Finally, his shoulders flexed and bunched as he tossed the shirt to the ground. That body . . . it wasn’t fair. So manly, so hot. My stomach warmed and dipped, my lungs squeezing tight as I fought the urge to sigh.

I hadn’t been horny in weeks and now it was like my body was wired, every cell electrified. All because he’d removed his damn shirt. I never should’ve told him how much I loved his chest all those weeks ago.

The skin along his side was scraped raw and it looked painful. At least, I hoped it was. Very, very painful. “Maybe the doctor should look at you first.”

“I’m fine. He’ll check you while I shower.”

“You’re leaving me alone with the doctor?”

“There’s a guard outside the door. You won’t be able to get away from me.”

“We’ll see.”

His mouth curved into a frown but a knock sounded, interrupting our little standoff. Fausto called for them to enter and a handsome man stepped into the room, a backpack and a bike helmet in his hands. He and Fausto kissed cheeks as Italians liked to do. “Buona sera, Don Ravazzani.”

Fausto pointed to me. “Ciao, David. Come, meet Francesca.” He clapped the doctor on the shoulder and said to me, “Dr. Abruzzi will look you over. He has equipment to listen to the baby, too. Let him check you, all right?”

Fausto, asking for my permission? This was new. I nodded, hiding my surprise behind another bite of cake. He exchanged a few words with the doctor and disappeared into his bathroom.

“Signorina Mancini,” the man said, setting his backpack on the bed. “I’m David. With your permission I’d like to do a quick examination. Nothing invasive.”

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