Page 10 of Claimed By the Possessive Mafia Prince
“That girl is delightful,” Mother says. “So funny.”
“I agree.”
“You’ve met her?”
“Briefly, when I was snorkeling this morning.”
“How lovely.”
I look across the marquees–past the Family, past their wives, around forty people in total–to where Siena talks with one of the catering staff. She’s wearing a dress that emphasizes the shape of her breasts and her ass. It’s probably notdesignedto do that, but that’s where my gaze goes.
“It’s just so nice to get away,” Mother goes on. “To forget about the city.”
“I agree. I’m glad you’re having fun. Forty years of marriage–you and father deserve it. How is he? Managing to forget about work?”
“As much as he can. You know how he is.”
I do, because it’s how I’m forced to be a lot of the time. As the prince of the Bianchi family, I’ve got a heavy weight on my shoulders. I give my mother another squeeze. “You’re right–it’s good to get away.”
I approach the buffet table, getting close enough to Siena that I can hear her voice. “…doing a fantastic job, but I think we need to circulate with some nibbles so that people who don’t want to queue for the buffet don’t have to. I’m happy to pitch in with that.”
I walk up behind her. “Excuse me, Siena? I’d like to make a complaint.”
She turns with a scowl… then, when she sees it’s me, her face lights up. A moment later, the scowl returns, but it’s forced. She seems determined not to smile at me.
“It’s the merman,” she says with an air of irony. “Did you really want to make a complaint?”
“Yes–you haven’t eaten anything.”
“I’m too busy.”
“You should take a few minutes for yourself.”
“Are you my babysitter?”
“It seems like you need one. I don’t want you starving yourself.”
She needs to feed her perfect body, her wide hips, the mouthwatering thickness of her thighs.
“I’ve got things to do, sir.”
“Sir,” I repeat. “Ah–I get it. Now that you know I’m with the wedding party, you’re going to show me some respect.”
She shrugs. “I’m just doing my job.”
“What if I said I was Vittorio Bianchi’s son? Would you eat something for me then?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You’re his son?”
I nod, trying to maintain my good mood. Honestly, I don’t like being defined as the Bianchi Prince. But she was going to find out eventually.
“Yes, I am, and my father tends to listen to me. So–eat something. You’ve earned it.”
She sighs. “Maybe I can take a minute or two.”
“I’ll make you up a plate.”
I stack two plates with food, then look around for her. She’s gone to the very edge of the marquee, sitting alone.
