Page 51 of Broken Mafia Prince
I don’t let my smile falter, though. I know better than to show weakness.
“Brunch sounds like a good idea,” my father adds from his seat, and the glance he shoots me is a clear warning not to be disobedient.
“It really does,” I say through clenched teeth. “I need to go change, excuse me.”
Without waiting for a response, I bolt from the room before my fixed smile completely crumbles. My steps are sharp and angry as I head upstairs. Even after all these years, my room feels more like a storage space than a personal sanctuary. It still looks exactly the same as it did the day we moved in—bland and sterile. A bed, a dresser, and a table. The walls are bare, beige, and uninviting. The sheets are plain white, and the table holds only a few books—nothing personal.
Every time I think about decorating, about making it my own, the guilt weighs on me. It feels like a betrayal of my twin, a betrayal of her memory. And yes, I know I’m being a hypocrite, fussing about my father moving on with his life when I can’t even do something as simple as put cute sheets on my bed.
With a heavy sigh, I pull a blush pink dress from the closet, along with matching flats. As I slick on some clear lip gloss, an idea begins to take shape in my mind. It’s dangerous, a complete asshole move, but in my defense, he started it first.
A lopsided grin curves my lips as I pull open the bedside drawer, retrieving something that will make all the difference. Maniacal laughter bubbles up in my chest, and I toss the object into my purse, securing my ponytail tightly before heading out the door.
Luca is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and the worried expression he wore earlier is gone. Now, he’s all impatience, tapping his foot, checking his Rolex like I’ve kept him waiting for hours.
“I’m a busy man,” he snaps as I approach. “Try not to waste my time.”
“I’m sorry.” I drop my gaze and offer an apologetic smile. His eyes flicker with surprise, no doubt thinking I’ve suddenly turned into the perfect little girlfriend. He’s too stupid to seethrough the act. A smug smile stretches across his face, and he nods, as if he’s just won some great victory.
Hook, line, and sinker.
“There’s a place I’ve been meaning to try,” I say casually, watching his reaction. “But I’ll understand if you can’t; I hear the meals there cost an arm and a leg.”
For all their claim of being so complex and powerful, manipulating men is one of the easiest things to do. Manipulating Luca is easier than taking candy from a baby, and I’m not surprised at all when he pulls himself straighter and stares down at me like I’ve just insulted him and his entire generation by daring to insinuate that he can’t afford something.
“What restaurant is that?” he asks. “I’m in the mood to try something new anyway.”
“Troy’s,” I say, my lips curling into a secretive smile. “It’s a new place, close to the central shopping district.”
This is going to be too easy.
As we walk toward the door, I catch Isa’s eye. She’s watching me, her suspicion clear as she shakes her head with a warning. I give her a wave, even blow her a kiss for good measure. She doesn’t get a say in what I’m about to do. She hasn’t had to deal with Luca the way I have.
I just hope Luca’s dumb enough to take the bait and not do anything stupid or try to call my bluff. If he tries, he’s going to regret it.
“Couldn’t you at least make the effort to wear some makeup or put on heels?” Luca’s voice cuts through my thoughts as I slide into the cool leather interior of his Mercedes.
This coming from the man whining about how I “wasted” his precious fifteen minutes changing clothes. I bite back a laugh, but before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He pulls it out and spends the rest of the drive yammering about some upcomingparty, discussing how to score drugs for it and pay off the cops to stay away.
I try not to listen, but my thoughts wander to my new favorite pastime. I can’t help but picture Raffaele, wondering if he’d be the one driving me to brunch instead. Would he spend the whole ride on the phone, too? Or would he —
“We’re here, sir,” the driver announces, interrupting my daydreams as we pull over at the curb.
I blink, surprised that we’ve arrived so quickly. Smoothing down the front of my dress, I steel myself and step out of the car.
Luca is still laughing into his phone as we walk into Troy’s, and my fists clench so tightly, my nails cut into my palms. When we’re seated, Luca finally decides to drop his phone, casting a quick, contemptuous glance at the waitress before looking away, as if this place is beneath him.
Troy’s is nothing like the pretentious, stuffy restaurants Luca usually drags me to. There are no white tablecloths, no servers in tuxedos, no chandeliers weighing down the room. Instead, it has a casual vibe, with a high-domed glass ceiling that lets natural light flood the space. It’s warm and inviting, with a relaxed atmosphere that I can actually get behind.
And knowing this day of the week is its busiest is precisely why we’re here.
“Is this a five-star restaurant?” Luca barks at the server. “Does the chef have a Michelin star?”
The girl’s eyes shift over to me, shock evident in them. I clear my throat and rescue her. “Why don’t you bring us your Monday special, and a bottle of your most expensive red wine?”
“Of course, ma’am,” the waitress says quickly, slipping away before Luca can recover from being completely ignored—and worse, ordered for. Luca likes to be the biggest, loudest, most important person in the room, and I’ve often gone along with it, just to keep the peace.
But not today.
