Page 15 of Savage Vows

When I don’t respond, he exhales, and to my surprise, his lips curve slightly. The smile transforms his face, makes him look slightly less intimidating. “Well then, I need to figure out something else.”

“You go ahead and eat. I can order a pizza or something.” And eat it upstairs in my room.

“I won’t hear of it.”

“It’s fine; I promise. In fact, I’m not very hungry anyway.” Not after the bag of chips, the soda, and plenty of chocolate. “I’ll just go back upstairs and finish watching the movie I started.”Since when did I become such a good liar?

“Nice try, little rebel. But you’re coming with me. Grab your glass.” It’s still an order, but it’s not as harsh as others.

“Where are we going?”

“The kitchen.”

I blink, caught off guard by his response. “But … Your dinner’s getting cold.” And I was hoping to escape.

“We eat together,” he says simply. “That’s nonnegotiable.”

He picks up his glass, and I do the same before following him toward the back of the house.

The kitchen is as elegant as the rest of the house—gleaming marble and stainless steel under warm lighting.

Holding my glass tight, I prop my shoulder against the doorjamb while Matteo slides his wine onto a counter.

Then he shrugs out of his suit coat and drops it over the back of one of the island’s stools. His crisp white shirt emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders and the chiseled cut of his biceps.

As I watch, he rolls back his shirt sleeves, revealing his strong forearms marked with a few small scars. I also see a hint of a tattoo that has to be some sort of phrase, but I can’t make it out.

Everything about him is so damn masculine and appealing. The part of me tasked with survival wishes he wasn’t this drop-dead gorgeous. I need to focus on the things I despise about him, rather than being sucked in by his raw magnetism. “What are you doing?” I ask, trying to distract myself.

“Making you something to eat.”

“You …?” I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t for Matteo to take control of the kitchen.

“My mother,” he says, voice softening slightly, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath the monster, “insisted we all learn to take care of ourselves. We’ve spent many an hour making meals together, especially for Sunday dinner.”

I couldn’t be more stunned. The last thing I expected from a Mafia underboss was for him to cook for me.

He opens the refrigerator, then looks over at me. “Do you eat cheese?”

I nod. “I enjoy all kinds of dairy.” And I’m not sure anything on the planet could get me to give up rocky road ice cream. “I’m not vegan.” Even though I don’t tell him, I sometimes even eat chicken and fish.

“Grilled cheese sandwich?”

The ultimate comfort food, like my mom had made for me. His choice makes me a bit nostalgic, reminding me of a time before I was exposed to the horrors of who my father and uncles are. “Sounds good.”

He pulls out a deli package of thick-sliced sliced cheddar. Next, he finds butter and a loaf of crusty French bread.

Then he moves to the pantry with its frosted-glass door. When he exits, he’s holding a can. “Tomato soup?”

I haven’t had it since college, and I smile. Suddenly I’m hungry. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Coming right up.”

As I study him from a safe distance, I notice things I missed before—his total concentration, the way his expression sometimes softens when he glances my way, the tiny scar above his eyebrow. Rather than taking away from his beauty, these features enhance it.

He’s a study in contrasts—the ruthless man who kidnapped me and has somehow transformed into someone almost …approachable.

This glimpse of domesticity catches me off guard. Despite myself, I can’t help but watch him work. His powerful hands are capable of delivering destruction, and yet he is completely competent with pans and can openers.

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