“I … I did. She wants to know what is expected of her.” Glory pressed her lips together and then continued. “She is … scared. She told me that she doesn’t know what to expect. Every time she sees you, she expects you to kill her. She said that she knows everyone here hates her and would love for any excuse to kill her. They all hate a Russo, but then she said, as if she didn’t understand why… I … I…”
“What?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I think she is … lonely and she’s afraid. She doesn’t know what to do. How to act. I get the sense that she has always known how to deal with things back at home. I don’t think she always had an easy life.”
And he had yet to hear anything from Genius.
Milah had a sharp tongue on her. It was nothing he couldn’t handle, but he was curious. She was used to knowing ahead of time how to react. How to be, and why? Was it because of her father?
Antonio Russo would never win father of the year, but then most of them here would never win it either.
“Thank you,” he said. “You can go.”
“What do I tell her?” Glory asked.
“Give it three days. Tell her you are doing your best, and I will give you a response.”
Glory nodded and then left his office.
One way or another, he needed to figure Milah out.
A guard came to his door and informed him dinner had been served. When he arrived at the dining room, Milah was already there, sitting in the same chair she’d been in the past few nights.
He sat down as the chef brought out their food. This was a new occurrence, the chef paying such close attention. He doubted the man enjoyed his food being left the other day, but it simply hadn’t been as good as Milah’s.
Nodding at the man, he watched as his food was placed in front of him. Steak with roasted vegetables, and a thick herb sauce. One of his favorite meals. It was a meal his mother had made him many times.
He smiled.
Glancing toward Milah, he saw her hands clench, and then she reached for the knife and fork. She rarely finished any of the food that was brought her way. He watched her now as she took the tiniest slice of steak and put it in her mouth.
Milah tensed up, and he noticed she closed her eyes, and her lips seemed to go into a stern line.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Do you not like the food?” He took a bite of his steak.
“It is delicious.” She took another taste and then another.
Figuring she was struggling with the enjoyment of the day, Damon enjoyed his meal, noticing Milah didn’t finish hers.
“You need to eat,” he said.
“I’m not hungry.” She put her napkin down.
He snapped his fingers and dessert was brought out. Damon noticed her shoulders seemed to slump, and he frowned. What the fuck was going on?
When Milah’s dessert was put in front of her, she lifted her spoon and hesitated in scooping out some of the chocolate mousse.
“Enough,” Damon said. He lifted his spoon and leaned over.
“Sir, your own dessert,” the chef said.
Damon took a spoonful and placed it at his lips. Milah’s gaze was wide and as he tasted it, he had no choice but to grab his napkin and spit it out.
“Has your food been like this all the time?” he asked.
“It’s fine.”
“He has used fucking salt and vinegar in your mousse, Milah.” He shoved his chair back. “What did he put on your steak?”
“Damon, it is fine.”
He looked toward the guards. “Get me all the kitchen staff, now!” He yelled the order. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Milah shake just a little bit. She’d had to deal with inedible food. For how long?
She hadn’t gone into the kitchen, and he had figured she was being a little stubborn, but trying this food, why would she? If trying to recreate the single memory of her mother had caused this, he doubted very much she would have wanted to keep on cooking.
His guards rounded up the kitchen staff, bringing them to him. He looked at them, one by one. All of them staring at the floor, quivering in fear.
“What did he put on the steak?” Damon asked. “What has your chef been doing to Milah Russo’s food?”
The chef fought against the hold one of his guards had on him. “Do not answer that!” the chef yelled.
Damon walked over to the chef, pulled out his own knife, and slashed him across the cheek.
Cries rang out in the dining room.
“Salt, and he sometimes made me put on flowers from the garden,” one of the women said.
“He … he wanted me to gather dog shit to use on her plate.” This came from another woman.