Page 41 of Mila: The Godfather

Without looking away from her, I order. “She will have a grilled chicken sandwich. No lettuce and no tomatoes. A side of Mac and cheese and an order of waffle fries. A coke for her and a glass of whiskey for me.” When I’m done, both women are staring at me with faces of disbelief. One is looking at me, somewhat embarrassed, and the one I care for is looking at me as if I’ve read her mind, and now she’s freaked the fuck out. Yeah, perhaps I’m pushing, but fuck it, she’s hungry. When Imogen doesn’t move, I turn to regard her with a frosty and indifferent look. I’m not a piece of shit. I don’t mistreat women, but this one thought she was being slick, and that shit doesn’t bid well with me. “Go on. My guest is hungry.”

Imogen’s face contorts into an angry scowl, but she has the good sense to keep her trap shut. I gesture for her to hurry, which pisses her off more.

Before she leaves in the direction she came from, she’s stopped by the sweetest voice. “Excuse me.” Both Imogen and I turn to Mila. “Do you know the death rate for airplanes?” I can’t help but smile when Mila directs her question at the flight attendant without looking away from the window.

The flight attendant glares at her, then simultaneously rolls her eyes up to her eyebrows. Before she says anything that might get her ass thrown off this plane, I give her a warning glare. One that says ’say a word to upset my guess, and it will be the last words you speak.” I told the woman. “Leave us,” I add.

“She doesn’t like her job very much does she?” The littlest Parisi finally looks away from the window and looks my way. She looks at my lips, to be precise. A smirk tips the corner of her mouth.

“What makes you think that?” I ask, enjoying her eyes on me too damn much. She might not look me in the eyes, but fuck, does her gaze burn my skin, and the most endearing thing about it is that she has no idea how much she affects me. None.

“I can sense… attitude,” she mumbles.

“Has nothing to do with her job, sweetheart. I pay her well and she gets to travel the world.”

“Then I don’t understand what her dilemma is.” Her brows furrow as she most likely thinks of what could have possibly made the flight attendant act so rude towards her.

“Some people are just petty, butterfly.” I shrug. “Petty, rude, and boring, and that’s reason enough to pretend they don’t exist.” I don’t tell her that the reason Imogen was rude to her was due to the fact that she can’t compare. Her rudeness was driven by jealousy. Plain and simple.

“Butterfly? Why did you call me that? That is not my name. My name is—”

Holding back a chuckle, I say. “I know your name. I called you butterfly because you remind me of them. Pretty, delicate, and rare.”

Her eyes turn a brighter shade of turquoise, and the corner of her mouth slowly lifts. “My father used to call me retard, so I guess calling me a bug is a step up.”

The moment the awful word slips from her mouth, a need to turn this plane around and pay her father a little visit is taking over my senses. That motherfucker Parisi has always been and will always be a cunt, even to the day he takes his last breath. “Don’t say that shit.” I try to refrain from chastising her.

“You know I am autistic, correct?”

I shrug. Of course, I know.

It means nothing to me.

I watch her watching me back with a frown on her face and her eyes moving at a rapid pace. I don’t need to be a mind reader to understand she’s trying to gauge my reaction to her confession.

“Because of my disability, I will miss subtle clues. You will need to explain things directly to me.” I hear her.

I look only at her. “Whatever you need, Mila,” I tell her, unbothered.

She nods. “Thank you.” she smiles, then says. “I like it. Butterfly. Sweetheart, too.” she clarifies.

“I like it too, Mila.” I like it way too much. More than a man like me should.

“I’m not weak, nor am I stupid.” She whispers shily, surprising me with the sudden change. “Most people find out about my disability and look at me differently as if I am lacking somehow. They’re wrong. I am very smart, and I might say smarter than most, and my disability does not define me. It’s called Asperger’s Syndrome or autism spectrum disorder, and it is a part of me, yes, but it’s not everything. I’m more than a disability.”

She is.

She’s kind when she’s known only harshness and cruelty.

She is brilliant and talented as fuck.

I don’t see her differently, and I never will. I never have.

I nod, looking at her while she looks down at her hands. “I know.”

“I’m tough.” She mumbles so softly I almost miss it.

“You are.”

---