Page 52 of Dark Mafia Heir

I take another stab at the egg, remembering the anger in his eyes. . .

Asshole!

The taste of his lips when he kisses me, the feel of him above and inside me, the sound of his growls and grunts in my ears letting me know I made him feel good too.

Bastard!

And, finally, to crown it all, the disappointment in his voice when he ordered me to get out of his fucking room.

Arrgh!

“Is this really necessary?” I snap, my voice echoing off the kitchen tiles.

Did it really bother him that I tried to kill him? I mean, weren’t men like him supposed to expect things like that—deathlurking around every corner? Didn’t they sleep with guns under their pillows?

But, to be fair, his gun lay on the nightstand by the bed.

Still. . .

He. Kidnapped. Me.

And constantly keeps me from communicating with my sister.

I get that acts of violence aren’t exactly news to anyone’s ears anymore, but doesn’t it at least mean something?

Agatha sits across from me, calm as ever, buttering her toast with the precision of a surgeon. She doesn’t even glance up.

“You keep trying to run, I guess,” she says, her tone infuriatingly matter-of-fact. “The boss has to take precautionary measures.”

“I wasn’t running,” I huff, jabbing at my eggs again. “I was walking—briskly—toward the door. There’s a difference.”

Okay, I didn’t exactly tell her thetruestory. But when Antonio’s men marched into the kitchen this morning to interrupt breakfast by handcuffing me to a chair, I had no choice but to cook something slightly convincing in seconds.

Agatha finally looks at me, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “With a suitcase, Vivienne? And shouting, ‘You’ll never catch me alive’? Sounds an awful lot like running to me.”

My cheeks flush, but I refuse to back down. “It was a figure of speech.”

Imagine the look of horror on her face if she knew I tiptoed into her boss’s room to suffocate him with a pillow.Hispillow.

Pathetic.

I took a knife to her neck and, last night, a pillow to her employer’s head.

Behind me, one of the bodyguards coughs, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. I whip my head around, glaring at him. “Something funny, Andre?”

His name isn’t Andre, but that’s the point.

No one else knows what happened; not the stupid attempted murder, the intense brief sex I couldn’t get out of my mind, his punishment or rejection. . . Absolutely nothing.

And I intend for it to stay that way.

Andrestraightens immediately, his face going blank.

“That’s what I thought,” I mutter, turning back to my eggs and stabbing them again for good measure.

Agatha sighs, setting her toast down and fixing me with her exasperated motherly ‘you’re being ridiculous’ look. “Vivienne, this is for your protection. You know that.”

“My protection?” I scoff, rattling the chain of the handcuff for emphasis. “I’m in my own kitchen, eating breakfast. Who’s going to attack me here? The toast?”

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