Page 64 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
“Fine.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes are storms. “But when you get back, you’re telling me why you married me.”
I nod, that familiar dread settling in my stomach.
She’ll get her answers.
I just pray they don’t make her hate me.
25
MIA
The house feelslike a mausoleum when Lorenzo’s gone.
His staff operates on some kind of secret schedule. Ghost maids who slip in and out without leaving so much as a fingerprint, chefs who prepare meals and vanish like culinary ninjas. Can’t have the help overhearing things that could get them killed, I suppose. Just another charming perk of being married to a mafia don.
It’s honestly shocking how much Lorenzo trusts me. He doesn’t hide his business calls anymore. Hell, right after I discovered his creepy stalker shrine, he took a call from Luca and didn’t even bother stepping away. Just stood there in the bedroom discussing God knows what kind of violence in that calm, terrifying way of his.
But he’s keeping other secrets.
I’ve known that from day one. What I never imagined was that those secrets involved him lurking in the shadows, collecting my underwear, and taking pictures of me like some deranged fanboy.
Stalking. That’s the word for what he’s been doing, and thinking about it makes my skin crawl.
Or it should.
Any normal woman would be dialing 911 right now, not pacing the length of this ridiculously expensive living room like a caged animal. Olivia would have me on the first flight back to LA if she knew. Jill would probably hire bodyguards. My parents would call the FBI.
Which is why I’m here alone, wearing a groove in Lorenzo’s marble floors instead of reaching for my phone.
Am I losing my mind?
Because I should be furious about the violation. I should be terrified of the man who’s been watching me sleep and stealing my things like some kind of beautiful, well-dressed serial killer.
But the most confusing part? I’m more upset that he’s still keeping secrets than I am about the whole stalking situation.
That’s not normal, Mia.
I’m a writhing mess of anger and hurt and frustration, pacing back and forth while my brain tries to untangle the emotional clusterfuck that is my life. And underneath it all, threading through every other feeling like poison in my bloodstream, is lust.
That’s the part that really makes me question my sanity.
Something about the look in his eyes when he talked about watching me sent heat racing through my veins. The way he said he couldn’t stop himself, like I was some kind of drughe was addicted to. It was utterly fucked up and completely confounding.
And it turned me on.
Two hours later, I still can’t wrap my head around it. But I can’t stop thinking about him staring at those pictures, either. Did it drive him crazy to watch me doing mundane shit like buying coffee or meeting friends for lunch? I felt the hunger radiating off him during our brief conversation, so I’m pretty sure the answer is yes.
Would other women find that disgusting?
Probably.
I can’t bring myself to feel that way, no matter how hard my logical brain screams that I should. Instead, I imagine him touching himself while looking at my pictures, fantasizing about me while he planned our fucked-up marriage. Did he get off on knowing I had no idea he existed?
But the stalking didn’t stop after our wedding. Some of those pictures were taken just days ago. He didn’t just watch me until he got his hands on me—he’s still watching.
A flutter pulses through my low belly at the thought, warm and twisted and entirely inappropriate.
After a lifetime of feeling invisible, I finally feel seen. Treasured, even.
