“None of your business.”
“He seemed…territorial.”
She snorts. “So are dogs. Doesn’t mean they own the thing they’re pissing on.”
Something in her tone makes me feel a little better. Not that I care about Damiano’s jealous exes. I don’t care about Damiano’s sexual history at all.
But I can’t help wondering how many men might have sat in this kitchen, wearing his robe, having a run-in with Sammy. I slide back onto the stool, a little shaken despite myself. I need to refocus.
“So, do you like working for Dami?” I ask again. She doesn’t answer. Just adds basil to the sauce and keeps stirring. “He seems like a good man,” I venture.
Her response is instant. “He is not a good man.”
I pause, coffee cup halfway to my lips. “Kind, then.”
“He is not a kind man, either. But he is loyal. To the death.”
Not good. Not kind.
But loyal.
I can work with that.
The voice that cuts through the room from behind me is just as startling as the explosive knocking was a few minutes ago. “Get on with your cooking, woman.”
We both freeze.
Damiano stands in the doorway looking like death in black briefs. He’s shirtless, pale, and the white bandage is crimson. He looks like he should be in a hospital bed, but he’s still menacing, eyes locked on Rosa with dangerous intensity.
“If your tongue gets any looser,” he tells her softly, “I’ll ask Vito to cut it out.”
Rosa doesn’t flinch. Just turns back to her sauce like he’s commented on the weather.
His gaze travels over me, taking in every detail—his too-large robe on my frame, the coffee in my hands, the way I’m perched on a stool at the counter.
I feel pinned like a butterfly to a board.
“Andyou,” he says, voice dropping to a growl. “Come with me.”
I set down the coffee cup and follow my owner like a well-trained dog.
CHAPTER 25
DAMIANO
I leadthe Clemenza prince back upstairs to my bedroom and I close the door. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Given the circumstances, I think my voice sounds very calm.
Caligula folds his arms. My robe hangs loose on his smaller frame, the front gaping to reveal the golden skin of his throat and chest. And that infuriating, casual confidence radiates from every line of his body like he’s stillsomebodyinstead ofproperty.
“I was getting Rosa,” he says, and gestures. “Your arm. You’re bleeding again.”
I glance down. Blood has soaked through the white bandage, a spreading stain I didn’t even notice. Like I didn’t notice Caligula Clemenza slipping out of my bed and prowling around my house.
My own body was failing me while I slept, weak and vulnerable. The fact thathesaw it is humiliating. The fact that he went down and shot his mouth off to Rosa is worse.
I don’t needtending.
