“Christ,” I groan, the need to fill her so intense I can hardly think past it.
My hands go to the hem of her skirt, lifting it, when I hear the door in the other room open.
Jesus.Chapter 9Mia
I purr as I feel sir’s strong fingers inching my skirt indecently up my thighs. This is fucking hot. I love the way he handles me. I've never felt so protected as I do right now, with his tall, strong body behind me, his hands holding me, baring me…
“Enzo…”
Enzo backs away from me like I just flared up to a thousand degrees, spins and greets the man with a choked voice that sounds guilty even to me.
“What the hell are you doing here? Who invited you?”
Emilio is dark haired and dark eyed, with features that scream Italian. He’s younger than Enzo, and stockier. He's wearing a leather jacket over a white t-shirt. He has an unlit cigarette between two fingers, and a smirk on his face which grows the longer he looks from Enzo to me, and back again.
“Hi,” Emilio says. “So. What's up?”
“Dinner,” Enzo says. “And I’m changing my fucking locks.”
“Hi,” I smile. "I'm Mia.”
“Hi, Mia,” Emilio says. “I’m Emilio.”
Somehow, this is topping the Davo interactions for sheer awkwardness.
They’re being weird. Very weird. Emilio looks at me like he knows me, says my name as if it is familiar. It doesn’t take an algebra class to put X and Y together and work out that this Emilio must be another one of my father’s men. How many are here, watching me? Is anybody in this world actually real?
“You givin’ cooking lessons now, professor?” Emilio’s smile widens, but doesn't reach his eyes. The tension in the room is palpable, enough to make me nervous.
“Emilio was just leaving," Enzo says.
“I was?”
“You were,” Enzo repeats. There’s a further conversation between them, but it all happens wordlessly, in glances and quirked brows and shaken heads. It only lasts a couple of seconds, but more was said between them that way than was said out loud, that’s certain.
“Well, shit," Emilio says. “Guess I’ll see you round. Nice to, uh, meet you, Mia.”
Emilio leaves, and Enzo sits down at the table heavily, his head in his hands.
“Fucking Christ…” he groans the words.
"What's wrong?”
He lifts his head to look at me. “We can’t do this, Mia. I’m here to protect you. I'm not supposed to be interfering in your life like this. I’m not supposed to be…”
"What do you mean, you can't do this?”
“I mean this," he says, gesturing around at me, the food, the apartment. “I cannot do this. If your father found out…”
“So we're both doing things we're not supposed to. So what?" I shrug. He looks so worried. There’s lines on his face that aren’t from age, but from worrying. I’ve seen the same lines on my father's face. They get carved in deeper than wrinkles, the price men in the family pay. Never ever being able to relax. Never being able to enjoy something simple, like a good meal, or a good fuck — not that I know what that is.
“Emilio's not stupid, and he’s fiercely loyal. If he reports back to your father, I’ll have a bullet in my gut before the end of business today, and you’ll be unprotected.”
“I’m not actually in danger. If I was, there’s no way I would have been allowed to come here," I say. "So don't worry about that. As for Emilio, take care of him.”
He gives me a look like I just said something fucked up.
“I’m not saying whack the guy,” I exclaim. “But, you know, take care of him.”
“You don't know what you’re saying, Mia,” Enzo growls. “And I know you’ve heard your father speak that way over the years, but there’s consequences to taking care of people, the way you mean, so stop playing mob boss.”
Now I’m insulted. This man actually thinks I’m a silly little girl playing games. Suddenly, all of this seems like mockery.
“So that’s it? One moment you’re hot for me, the next, we're stopping because of my father? I’m getting cock blocked by my own dad?”
“Don’t speak like that, Mia. It's beneath you,” Enzo says.
He can’t help but be patronizing. It's built into his DNA. I've known men like him all my life. They stake their loyalty to the concept of family and they’ll die for it. If my father told him to cut his hand off, he would. I guess there's some nobility to that, but frankly, I’m tired of men who make themselves my father's lackey, especially when they try to drag me back into the fifteenth century with them. Everything was hot and sexy and yummy as hell before that Emilio guy walked in. Now it's like Enzo never found me attractive at all. The mood has been more than killed, it's been whacked, cut up into little pieces, and dumped in the harbor.