Page 300 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

“You didn’t mention Frankie in that promise.”

I lift an eyebrow. “I said I’d never hurt you. Killing your brother would hurt you, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So you have to trust me, then.”

“What if he can’t get your money back?” she asks, her voice wavering. “If he says he can’t get to it, what will you do then?”

“He’s going to find it,” I say. “He has you to think about. He won’t want anything bad to happen. He’s gonna do what he needs.”

“Right,” she whispers, toying with the ends of her hair. “Okay.”

Now, Marchella is a smart girl. She knows as well as I do that Frankie isn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, and that any job he does is at risk of blowing up in his face because he never thinks about his actions.

That sure as hell hasn’t changed.

But yet, she’s still trying to convince herself that maybe I’m not the bloodthirsty savage she originally thought I was.

And that maybe I do have some redeeming qualities after all.

That’d be a first.

I’ve lived my life thinking I was just beyond redemption. How ironic would it be if my captive felt differently?

Captive.

There’s that word again.

Why does it have to make me so damn heated when I think of tying her up and making her the kind of captive I really want her to be?

I jump off the couch, feeling as if I need to hurl myself into a cold shower but instead, opting to open the refrigerator. That’ll give me a chillandsomething to occupy my hands and eyes. I grab the carton of eggs, not sure what the hell to do with them, but knowing if my digits are free to wander, they may act on their own and do things that would be very bad.

Bad in the good way.

I can hear her feet pad into the room behind me. I swallow hard, sticking my head deeper into the fridge.

“You buzzed out of there pretty fast,” she murmurs. “Why?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t exactly tell her that I wanted to mount her on my couch and that I took off before my body betrayed me.

It’s done that before…too many times to count.

“I, ah, wanted to eat something.”

Understatement of the fucking century.

She sidles closer to me and reaches for the eggs. “Here, let me.”

But when her hand grazes mine, it jolts me and the carton flies out of my grip, smashing against the polished tile floor.

Eggs.

Everywhere.

As if on cue, my stomach rumbles. But I know it’s not because I have a taste for a very early breakfast. No, the hunger that has tormented me since I first laid eyes on Marchella Amante at that restaurant is manifesting itself.

Right here and right now.

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