Page 23 of Claimed By the Possessive Mafia Prince
Siena smiles shakily. “Sure, that sounds nice. I’ll get showered and changed and then meet you…”
“In our suite,” my mother says.
“Okay, see you there.”
“Do you want some help to get back to your room?” I ask.
“I’m not an invalid,” she says testily, walking away.
My father chuckles. “She’s got some spunk, that girl.”
“I think she’s great,” my mother murmurs dreamily.
So do I.
CHAPTER 9
SIENA
Istand in front of the mirror, adjusting my shirt, wondering if I should undo another button.
It’s the way you fidget…
It’s the way you laugh…
It’s the guilt in your smiles…
Somehow, Dario read me like a book. It’s sweet, and a little scary in a way I don’t fully understand, how much attention he’s paying to me. As I walk up the beach, I think about how dark he got when his uncle, Eddy, accosted me, threatening to break his jaw.
A cloud fell over him. It was like he became a different man.
Between the boat tour issues, the loose rocks, and Dario’s darkness, my instincts shudder. I can’t put my finger on specifically what, but it seems like there’s more going on here than I understand.
Or am I just being paranoid?
Marcela answers my knock with a big smile, ushering me into the room. Her suite has a large table resting on thick glass that shows the ocean beneath. Windows let in ample sunlight and a view of the open sea.
Vittorio sits on one side of the table, Dario on the other.
“Is it just us?” I ask.
Marcela beams at me. “Yes, dear.”
“My wife is playing the matchmaker,” Vittorio says, laughing.
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“He’s joking.” Dario stands, pulls out my chair. “But if you’ll allow me to pretend to be a gentleman…”
Dario wears a cream shirt. It’s opened to reveal hints of his firm muscles, the sleeves hugging his tight arms. His silver-threaded hair is wet, presumably from the shower.
Sue me–he looks handsome.
We sit around the table, then Marcela takes out her cellphone and shoots off a text. “Seafood platters okay for everyone?”
“Great,” I say. “Thank you, Mrs.—thank you, Marcela.” I correct myself when she makes a face at me.
Dario is sitting next to me. The seating is close enough that our legs are touching. Warmth courses over my thigh, between my legs, tickling and teasing at my heat. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose until he moves again, deliberately pressing his leg against mine.
