“I’m not,” I assure him.
“Certain foods belong to certain dishes. Fruit belongs in a bowl. Dipping sauces and condiments should be served in a ramekin. Mugs should only be used to drink hot beverages like coffee or hot chocolate and tea. Who would ever drink water or juice out of a mug and think that’s okay?”
“According to you a mad man.”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” he says. Suddenly, understanding the man who is Rico Maroni isn’t as much of a mystery anymore. All the tidbits of information he’s shared begin to click into place.
“Can I ask another question?”
“You just did.”
I roll my eyes at that and continue on. “You told me that if my pa doesn’t adhere to your famiglia’s demands I’m yours to keep. Did you mean that or are you just going to kill me?”
He sets down his cutlery and moves his dishes to the side. “I’d give you the mercy of a choice.”
“Choice?” I echo, perplexed.
“Be mine alive or be mine in death.” If I were any other woman I would believe that statement to be oddly romantic.
“But what if Constantine orders my death?”
“He won’t.”
“You sound so sure.”
“I promised you that your death belongs to me. I’m a man of my word. So, when I tell you that Constantine will not kill you I mean it.”
Those seeds of doubt are difficult to un-plant. And while Rico has been the honest man he claims I know I can’t trust him on this. Just like I know when it comes down to it, it’s the famiglia above all else.
Even my own pa proved that.
“You and Constantine close?”
“Close as in what?”
I rephrase, adapting to his literal thinking. “Do you and Constantine have a tight friendship? Do you consider him like an older sibling?”
He sets down his food and softly pushes his plate to the side. “Constantine and I have known one another for over a decade. Even if I had not joined his Famiglia I would still be loyal to him.”
Curiosity strikes me hard. “Why is that?”
“It’s a story I prefer not sharing,” he says, eyes cast aside.
I don’t continue to pry. Not when it’s the first time he’s deliberately not given me eye contact. “So,” I say to help eliminate the tension in the air, “what’s your plan with me now?”
“I’m not sure,” he breathes. There’s a knot between his brows. I refrain from wanting to smooth it out. “You’ve become quite the problem, haven’t you?”
I shrug my shoulder. “You could always just let me go. Problem solved.”
“If that was your attempt at a joke it was a terrible one.” Yet he still seems amused. Noticing my plates are finished he collects them and begins to wash. Once the dishes are placed on the drying rack he pins me with his signature gaze and says, “You’re a problem I don’t mind, gazzella. And that. . .that’s the biggest problem about you.”
His dilemma and mine are the same.
Because as much as I want to kill him and make my escape I know there’s a part of me that pauses in following through.
But I know I have to. I need the life I promised ma I would have for myself. One free of men controlling me. One where I can decide for myself.
If that means I have to kill Rico Maroni to get it, I will.
