"Probably so you could kill me later," she murmurs, but she reluctantly bites into the ham. The moment she takes her first mouthful, her eyes squeeze shut, and she releases a low moan in her throat.
I try very hard not to stare, but I'm obviously failing as I follow the movements of her cheeks as she chews and the bobbing of her throat as she swallows.
I swallow hard in turn.
"You want some?" She thrusts the bread in my face, but I can see the way it's trembling, slowly retreating as if she regrets her sudden outburst.
Greedy little tigress.
"I'm good," I say and lean back, continuing to watch her. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, satisfaction written all over her face.
"It's all for you," I add for good measure, and I'm regaled with another look of complete happiness as she dives into the food once more, stuffing her face with everything on the table.
She's eating like she's been starved for years.
I pause, the thought sobering me. My eyes rove down her body, and I remember how she'd felt beneath me, the way she'd barely had any meat on her bones. I'd noticed even then that she was unnaturally small.
"How old are you?" I suddenly ask, dreading the answer.
"Almost eighteen," she answers immediately, her mouth full of food. She's just so happy to be eating that all animosity seems to be put aside—for now.
I'm shocked. I quickly school my features so she doesn't realize it, but she's not paying attention to me, anyway. She only has eyes for her food.
Hell, I'm pretty sure eighteen-year-olds aren't this small or this skinny.
"I haven't had cheese in so long," she lets out a moan as she takes a bite of the gorgonzola.
"Why?"
"Not allowed," she replies before her eyes widen at her slip.
"Not allowed? What do you mean?" I shouldn't care. It's none of my business, after all, what happened to her or what will happen once she's off my hands. But somehow, I can't help it.
"It makes you fat." Allegra just shrugs, as if it's the most normal thing.
"And you don't want to be fat?" I'd seen the socialites in New York follow all sorts of diets to make their waists smaller. It had even become a competition of who could boast the smallest waist. Somehow, Scarlett O'Hara's fictional seventeen-inch waist had become the golden standard. I'd never been able to understand that fascination with such extremes. Yet, seeing the way Allegra's eating, with such gusto, I don't think she'd be one to watch her diet so minutely.
"Not me," she sighs, a defeated outtake of breath that makes her eyes slope downward in such a miserable look, "my future husband."
I frown. Seeing my expression, she cracks a joke.
"Maybe heisinto children," she giggles, but I don't. Not when the reality of the issue hits me in the face.
"And who is your future husband?" I probe further, disgusting scenarios already building up in my head.
"I don't think you know him," she tilts her head thoughtfully. "Achille Franzè." She doesn't even finish saying his name when I freeze.
Franzè, one of the most feared leaders of the'Ndrangheta,but also a known pedophile.
Fuck!
8
ENZO
Allegra's attentionis back on her food, but I'm just staring at her in shock. She doesn't even know how close to the mark she was with herjoke.
"So you've been starving yourself?" My voice is lower, softer, because I can only pity anyone who's going to meet her fate. Franzè is not one to be taken lightly, and his many dead wives are a testament to his ruthlessness. I doubt theyalldied of natural causes.
