Devil’s Lily: Chapter 2

The moment she waltzes into my restaurant, time grinds to a fucking halt. I’ve seen thousands of people walk through that door—criminals, cops, politicians—but never anyone like her.

The tension at my table spikes as my men and I watch this little slip of a woman with fire-engine red hair slide into one of the tables. Her curls tumble down her shoulders in wild spirals, untamed and vibrant like a cascade of flames.

It’s not just that she’s gorgeous—though she is. Maybe the most beautiful thing I’ve laid eyes on in my long, jaded life. And trust me, I’ve seen plenty. But no, what really draws me in is the defiant tilt of her chin, the stubborn furrow of her brow. She has an energy that demands attention, even as she seems completely oblivious to it.

I can practically smell her innocence from here—sweet and tempting as forbidden fruit. It’s in the way she moves, in the openness of her expression. This is someone life hasn’t taught a lesson. Not even close. In my line of work, you learn to read people fast—it’s how you stay alive. But this girl… her thoughts play out on her face like a fucking book. Her wide-eyed pleasure when she took in my restaurant. The flash of surprise when my men got up. And finally, that spark of curiosity when her gaze landed on me. Everything about her is on full display.

For someone like me, who takes pride in my poker face, who knows the value of keeping your thoughts hidden, her transparency is both fascinating and worrying.

My gaze shifts to the men walking in behind her, and my own jump up again, hands moving to their concealed weapons. I don’t recognize the five men who fan out around her in a protective stance, but they’re obviously armed and professional. Guards. Expensive ones.

This only deepens my interest in her. Who could she possibly be to have this kind of security detail? And how, in the midst of what must be a dangerous life, has she maintained that childlike innocence that radiates from her?

“Stand down,” I order quietly, and my men settle back into their seats. But I don’t take my eyes off her for even a second. I twirl my glass of scotch as I study her every move. It should have sent alarms going off in my head. Shit, this is exactly the kind of distraction that gets people killed in my world. Instead, it just makes me want to look longer.

“Dante. Go ask her what she wants.”

My second frowns at me—he’s not used to playing waiter—but he knows better than to question me. As he starts to move, I add in soft Italian, “Hey. Sii gentile.” Be nice. His frown deepens, and I understand why. Nice is the last thing we are, the last thing we stand for. But something in me doesn’t want to spook her, doesn’t want to see that innocence shatter. Yet.

He gives me a reluctant nod, then continues on to her table.

The girl stiffens as Dante approaches, and her guards shift on instinct behind her. They’re itching to move, but they know better than to do anything. The girl might not know where she’s stumbled into or who I am, but I see the recognition dawn on her guards’ faces. Foolish things. They should have stopped her from coming into my territory. Some lousy guards they are.

Dante stops in front of her table and says something. He must actually be following my order to be nice, because her face slowly lights up and her hands move animatedly while she answers. My chest expands, filling with an odd satisfaction, as I study her pretty face and the play of emotions on it.

Fascinating.

A few seconds later, Dante walks back to me, looking a little dazed, and my lips curl up in the corners. He’s always so composed. Nothing ever rattles him. Until now, apparently. “Today’s her twenty-first birthday,” he reports. “She was taking a tour of the town when she saw our restaurant and decided to stop here to get a bite to eat.”

Twenty-one. She’s practically a baby. But fuck if that’s going to stop me. She’s a legal adult in front of the law, and that’s all that matters—as Romero would say.

One of my men makes a choking sound. “A bite to eat?”

The others shift uncomfortably, and for damn good reason. Because Mughetto has never been a functioning restaurant—it’s a front for our ‘business’, just like my office on Main Street, and everyone in town knows to stay the fuck away.

Everyone except this red-haired angel who just wandered into the devil’s den, completely unaware.

Anyone with half a brain would feel the danger the second they step inside—see it in my men’s icy glares and the not-so-subtle bulges of guns under their suits. But not her. She’s looking around like she just strolled into fucking Disneyland.

As I watch her tuck a stray curl behind her ear, her face glowing with excitement at being here of all places, I make a decision that surprises even me.

“Which one of you can cook?” I ask, still glued to her, mesmerized by how she impatiently flicks another red curl back. I’m reluctant to take my eyes off her, but when no one answers, I finally turn my focus to my men. “Well?”

Silence stretches even more until Santino tentatively raises his hand. I snap my fingers at him. “Perfect. Go tell her the dishes you can cook and let her choose what she’d like.”

“B–but… we don’t have any ingredients.”

“Then we’ll get them. Whatever she wants.”

Santino rises and shuffles over to her. And then it happens again. My little redhead tilts her head up to meet his gaze, and when she flashes him her smile, it’s like the damn sun decides to show off just for her. My breath catches, and my pants tighten around the crotch. Fucking hell.

They speak for a few minutes, and then he comes back with the same dazed expression Dante had earlier. “She wants chicken soup, spaghetti alla carbonara, and calamari.”

I eye my heavily tattooed ex-cage fighter with new interest. “You can make all that?”

The tips of his ears go red. “I can. Had to learn how to cook because I needed to monitor my diet while I was an active fighter,” he mumbles defensively like I might mock him for this hidden talent.

Instead, I nod. “Good. Give Piero the list of ingredients so he can fetch what you need.” After they leave, I turn to my remaining men. “The rest of you, go over there and sing her the birthday song.”

They blanch. You’d think I’d just asked them to walk into enemy territory unarmed.

“With all due respect, Maximo, but I sound like a dying cat,” Dante protests, and the rest murmur their agreements.

I level them with a hard stare, letting a hint of the danger I’m capable of seep into my voice. “Are you questioning a direct order?”

That gets them moving. They scramble to their feet and make their way to her table. Her guards immediately tense again, but my girl doesn’t even flinch. She welcomes them with another breathtaking smile. Then, her eyes find mine across the room, and even from here, I can see the sparkle in them—bright, beautiful, full of curiosity. Fuck, I can’t wait to get close enough to see every fleck of color in them.

I give her a short nod, and she returns it, her smile somehow getting even bigger. That smile shoots right through my heart. Who the hell is this girl? And why am I reacting this way to her?

Then I catch it—her pupils dilating, her breath hitching. I’m not the only one attracted. She wants me too. Good.

Her lashes flutter shyly and her cheeks flush red; she breaks eye contact as my men stop awkwardly in front of her like they’re about to humiliate themselves—which, let’s face it, they are—but I’m enjoying every second of this little show. And it sure isn’t the men I’m focused on.

She licks those full, luscious lips in anticipation, and my cock damn near rips through my pants. Dark, wicked urges ride me, making it a battle to keep seated. I want to play with her, please her, spoil her, turn her ass red to match her hair. Hell, I want to watch every emotion play like a reel on that expressive face as I treat her to my brand of ownership.

My men open their mouths, and dear God… The sound that follows can hardly be called singing—it’s more like a chorus of croaky, off-key voices fumbling for harmony. But then her laughter bursts forth, making it all worthwhile. She throws her head back and releases a rich, throaty laugh that shakes through her. Her hair spills down her back, cascading in waves, exposing that delicate, pale curve of her throat.

Her happiness is so infectious, so unrestrained, I find myself smiling, completely caught up in her energy. I want more, more, more, more. More of her laugh. More of that smile. More of the way she lights up the room without even trying. It’s intoxicating.

I take my phone out and text Fergio. Time to make some arrangements.

When Dante and the rest of my men finish their tone-deaf performance and return to the table, they look disgustingly pleased with themselves despite their earlier reluctance. Whatever spell this girl has cast, it’s affecting everyone around her after spending just a moment in her presence. I want to experience her magic firsthand. But I force myself to wait. Good things come to those who wait, after all—or so they say.

My attention drifts to her again. She’s leaning back in her seat now, sighing softly. Her fingers absentmindedly play with the napkin on the table, eyes momentarily distant, as if some thought is running through her mind. Then, with a small shake of her head, she slides her phone out of her purse, and impossibly, her smile just grows as her fingers fly over the screen.

That better not be some guy.

My fists tighten as that possessive thought hits me. What the hell? I don’t even know her name. Don’t know a damn thing about her. Why should I care if she has a man?

Because she’s mine.

The crazy notion flits through my head, and I don’t fight it. I embrace it, eyes locked on my smiling little redhead who has no idea what kind of hornet’s nest she just poked. The moment she stepped into my territory, she sealed her fate. I will have her. Whether it’s for a night or a week remains to be determined.

Piero returns, arms full with ingredients, and Santino wastes no time getting to work in the kitchen. Not long after, Fergio arrives, buried under shopping bags. My girl watches him curiously as he drops the bags on the table in front of me.

Leaning in close, Fergio speaks low in my ear. “Your request was so vague, Mr. Leonotti, I wasn’t sure what exactly you had in mind, so I brought everything I could think of.”

I wave my hand, urging him to show me. Bag after bag, I sift through the goods with a smirk tugging at my lips. “Perfect.”

I point at one particular shopping bag, which contains a luxury designer brand bag I assume might mean something to her, and have one of my men take it over as my birthday gift to her.

I watch closely as she tentatively accepts the shopping bag from him and peeks inside. Her brows furrow with a cute little frown, then she casts a glance at me before saying something to my guy and handing the bag back.

Well, that’s not gonna fly.

Unsatisfied, I grab another shopping bag. She’s clearly used to luxury, if her entourage and the cars she arrived in are any indication. So, what exactly will impress her?

As I settle on the sleek box housing a gold necklace, Santino emerges from the kitchen with the first dish. Chicken soup.

I tighten my grip on the box.

Let her eat first.

Afterwards, I’ll shower her with more birthday gifts. Maybe with a full belly, she’ll be more pliant and accepting of them. And once that’s out of the way… well, then we can move on to more… pleasurable activities.

One way or another, this birthday girl is leaving with more than just a meal.