Dark Mafia Heir: Chapter 19

I stab my fork into the scrambled eggs on my plate, glaring at the yellow mound as if it personally offended me. The clink of metal reminds me of the handcuff keeping my wrist tethered to the chair, and my blood boils anew.

I take another stab at the egg, remembering the anger in his eyes. . .

Asshole!

The taste of his lips when he kisses me, the feel of him above and inside me, the sound of his growls and grunts in my ears letting me know I made him feel good too.

Bastard!

And, finally, to crown it all, the disappointment in his voice when he ordered me to get out of his fucking room.

Arrgh!

“Is this really necessary?” I snap, my voice echoing off the kitchen tiles.

Did it really bother him that I tried to kill him? I mean, weren’t men like him supposed to expect things like that—death lurking around every corner? Didn’t they sleep with guns under their pillows?

But, to be fair, his gun lay on the nightstand by the bed.

Still. . .

He. Kidnapped. Me.

And constantly keeps me from communicating with my sister.

I get that acts of violence aren’t exactly news to anyone’s ears anymore, but doesn’t it at least mean something?

Agatha sits across from me, calm as ever, buttering her toast with the precision of a surgeon. She doesn’t even glance up.

“You keep trying to run, I guess,” she says, her tone infuriatingly matter-of-fact. “The boss has to take precautionary measures.”

“I wasn’t running,” I huff, jabbing at my eggs again. “I was walking—briskly—toward the door. There’s a difference.”

Okay, I didn’t exactly tell her the true story. But when Antonio’s men marched into the kitchen this morning to interrupt breakfast by handcuffing me to a chair, I had no choice but to cook something slightly convincing in seconds.

Agatha finally looks at me, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “With a suitcase, Vivienne? And shouting, ‘You’ll never catch me alive’? Sounds an awful lot like running to me.”

My cheeks flush, but I refuse to back down. “It was a figure of speech.”

Imagine the look of horror on her face if she knew I tiptoed into her boss’s room to suffocate him with a pillow. His pillow.

Pathetic.

I took a knife to her neck and, last night, a pillow to her employer’s head.

Behind me, one of the bodyguards coughs, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. I whip my head around, glaring at him. “Something funny, Andre?”

His name isn’t Andre, but that’s the point.

No one else knows what happened; not the stupid attempted murder, the intense brief sex I couldn’t get out of my mind, his punishment or rejection. . . Absolutely nothing.

And I intend for it to stay that way.

Andre straightens immediately, his face going blank.

“That’s what I thought,” I mutter, turning back to my eggs and stabbing them again for good measure.

Agatha sighs, setting her toast down and fixing me with her exasperated motherly ‘you’re being ridiculous’ look. “Vivienne, this is for your protection. You know that.”

“My protection?” I scoff, rattling the chain of the handcuff for emphasis. “I’m in my own kitchen, eating breakfast. Who’s going to attack me here? The toast?”

Agatha’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile, but she schools her expression quickly. “No one wants to keep underestimating how far you’ll go to escape.”

I roll my eyes so hard, and it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. “Well, maybe if he voluntarily offers me freedom, I wouldn’t feel the need to ‘escape.’” I make air quotes with my free hand, the one not shackled to the chair.

Agatha doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, she takes a slow sip of her tea, her calm demeanor only fueling my frustration.

“And we’re back to the pointless argument. It’s not happening, child. Take your mind off it.”

“Fine,” I say, slumping back in my chair. The handcuff pulls tight, and I wince, yanking my arm back. “But I’m not saying I won’t try again.”

Agatha smirks. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

The audacity.

Before I slam back a quick-witted retort of mine, there’s a quiet entrance made into the kitchen, and I never thought I’d be more happy to see her face again.

“Ginny!”

Finally, a more friendly face, and someone who will actually understand. Agata swiftly whips up another plate of scrambled eggs and a steaming cup of tea for my guest, and, regardless of her protest, she shoves it in front of her anyway.

Ginny grabs a high stool, settling beside me, as her eyes journey from the steel shackles on my wrist to the silver fork hanging over the scrambles eggs on the plate.

“Elated to see you too, Vi, but what’s going on here?”

I thought I wanted the truth to stay between Antonio and me, but seeing Ginny, I’m not sure I want to keep anything bottled inside. The chaos is already too much, I feel I can’t handle it, and I might explode.

Maybe, except the sex part. It feels too private to share.

My eyes dart around the room, glaring at the guard who laughed, and to Agatha, who gives an understanding nod before she excuses us.

“About the guards, it’s no use asking them to leave. They won’t. Antonio’s orders.”

Ginny chuckles. “You mean your husband’s orders.”

I shove a chunk of egg into my mouth and wave the fork dismissively. “He’s the same person.” I sigh. “I’ll have to whisper.”

She leans in, encouraging the secret conversation, and I end up spilling everything about my secret mission last night, and how it ended into her ear. Including the sex part.

Amazing.

By the time I’m done, Ginny is laughing her head off, her silky hair swish-swaying over her shoulders as she wipes off tears from her eyes.

Disbelieving, she shakes her head. “No way any of that happened. I mean, I believe the other part, but the pillow? Come on, Vivienne. Just. . . No.”

I raise my hand, gesturing towards the handcuffs to prove it did happen, and she bursts out laughing again.

“You know what this is, don’t you?”

Stabbing another huge chunk of eggs, I shovel it into my mouth. “If it isn’t punishment for my evil deeds, then I’m sorry, but I don’t know what this is.”

“Don’t be naïve, Vi. You guys are having a lover’s spat.”

It’s a miracle I don’t choke on the munched eggs going down my throat. I feel my eyes widen in their sockets, and I glance around to make sure no one else heard that.

“What? Lover’s. . .What?”

Chuckling, she leans in and repeats. “Lover’s spat. You know, the phase where two lovers have intense arguments or fights, just like you two are. Antonio’s probably just upset that you tried to kill him and still wanted him to satisfy you. Now that’s pure evil, girl.”

Swallowing the eggs, I try to swallow the information she tosses at me. It doesn’t digest.

“No,” I shake my head, disagreeing. “He’s just pissed that I tried to bruise his ego. You know, a pillow? Of all the things I could have used? Imagine the headlines: THE NOTORIOUS AND RUTHLESS ANTONIO MANCINI DIES A SAD PAINFUL DEATH AFTER WIFE SUFFOCATES HIM WITH A PILLOW.”

Ginny literally guffaws and her happiness forces a genuine smile to my lips for the first time this morning. If it wasn’t for the guards around, there is a high chance she’d be rolling on the floor in joyful tears.

Collecting herself, she flicks a teardrop from her underneath her eyelids, and surprises me with a warm hug.

“Soon, Vivienne. Very soon, your eyes will be opened. You will see and understand.”

I doubt it, but I don’t bother saying anything because, in my heart, I know I hate Antonio Mancini.

But I enjoy every moment spent with him more than I should.

At some point between lunch and immediately after dinner, the handcuffs come off. I don’t even give Andre the common courtesy of a thank you before stomping off to the living room to watch the sunset through the tall glass windows.

Drawing the curtains apart, I fold my legs on the couch and nuzzle my head on the soft rim. Antonio is away on business, Agatha is busy as always, the guards leave me to wallow in loneliness, and Ginny is gone, too.

It’s just me, alone, left to ponder on Ginny’s words from breakfast.

Soon, Vivienne. Very soon, your eyes will be opened. You will see and understand.

It doesn’t make sense to me and I doubt that it ever will.

I’m watching the beautiful canvas of red and orange as the sun kisses the sky, when a haze of sleep clings to me like a heavy fog.

I know I fall asleep, but I don’t know for how long.

When I stir, my body sinks into something firm yet warm, a soft sway rocking me.

My eyelids flutter open, and I realize I’m moving—not by my own will, but because I’m cradled in Antonio’s arms.

His face is shadowed in the dim light of the hallway, but his jaw is set, his expression hard. I glance at his chest, where my hands are now resting, fingers curling instinctively into the soft fabric of his shirt.

My heart skips a beat.

I’m possibly dreaming. This has to be a dream.

“Antonio?”

He doesn’t look at me, but he answers my unspoken question. “You looked uncomfortable on the couch.”

My cheeks flush, warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with sleep.

He was mad at me, livid even. He shouldn’t care, but he does because I doubt there’s any other explanation for why he bothered to lift me out of that uncomfortable couch.

The steady beat of his heart vibrates against my palm, and for a moment, I just let myself feel it—the strength of him, the way he carries me without hesitation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s in me to argue, and, though halfhearted, I try to play cool. “I could’ve walked.”

He glances down at me, and I think I see a small, amused smirk tugging at his lips. Although, with this lighting, I can’t be sure.

“You could barely open your eyes. Until I lifted you.”

I don’t argue.

Instead, I nestle closer, my cheek pressing against his chest, letting myself enjoy the rare moment of vulnerability. His scent surrounds me—musk, man, and entirely him.

We reach the bedroom, and he nudges the door open with his foot.

The room is dark, but Antonio lowers me gently onto the mattress, his hands lingering at my back before he lets go.

The cool sheets contrast with the warmth of his touch, and I shiver slightly.

He notices, of course. Antonio notices everything.

“Don’t move.”

Because maybe, just maybe we’d finish what he started last night.

I fall silent, watching him as he adjusts the blanket over me, his fingers brushing against my arm briefly. The warmth of his touch lingers long after he pulls back, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

He straightens, his expression shifting back to calm, but there’s tension in his shoulders and hesitance as he lingers by the bed.

Then, as if reconsidering something, he turns his back to me, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. The fabric falls to the floor, but my eyes are locked on him.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen him like this before—shirtless, perfectly sculpted—but this time, something catches my attention, something I’ve never noticed before.

It stretches diagonally across his back, faint but unmistakable, like a faded line marring smooth skin. The edges are slightly jagged, but healed long ago, and looks deep enough that I know it must have been brutal when it was fresh.

A scar.

“Where did you get that?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He pauses, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly. For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me, to brush it off like he does with everything he doesn’t want to discuss.

Instead, he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at me over his shoulder. His eyes are unreadable, dark, and distant. “It’s nothing.”

Standing, the covers fall to the rug behind me, and I step closer to him. “Antonio, it doesn’t look like nothing.” My fingers itch to reach out, to trace the scar, but I hold back. “How did it happen?”

His eyes narrow like the question annoys him. “A long time ago. When I was seventeen. I handled it.”

“Handled it? That’s not an answer, and you know it.”

“Vivienne, drop it.”

It’s the first time Antonio has called me by my name in. . . Ever. Not gattina, or anything else, just Vivienne.

And that means whatever happened was gruesome enough to be kept locked in his big box of secrets.

I search his face, trying to piece together the fragments of his story he refuses to share. As if challenging himself, he stares at me, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on mine. Then, as if deciding against whatever words he might have said, he shakes his head.

He says nothing, picks up his shirt, and slips it back on.

Knowing Antonio, the conversation is over, but I’m sure I’ll never forget the image of that scar.

Why, Vi?

This shouldn’t concern me. I shouldn’t care.

And yet. . .

I do.

I want to know all the secrets that lurk behind those guarded eyes of his, but most importantly, I’m suffocated by an indescribable need to crush whoever hurt him that way.