Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
How freaking special I feel every time he shares something like this about his real struggles. About who he really is.
“Yes, Gio,” I whisper. “I like the way you make me feel.”
The corners of his mouth lift. “Good. Now, what can I do for you this morning? Take you to breakfast? What time do you have to be at work?”
“Not until two. And I’m making you breakfast.” I’m suddenly full of energy, excited to be the version of me he finds so attractive. “Ever have a woman cook for you in the nude?” I ask, traipsing toward the door. “Scratch that, I don’t want to know the answer,” I call as I sashay toward the kitchen.
“No,” he calls after me. “Never, baby. You’re the only woman I ever let in my kitchen!”
I’m absurdly pleased with that answer. When you grow up Italian—or at least in my family—you learn that cooking is love. My nonna still spends an entire day preparing a meal for the family dinner. At Christmas, she spends two days making cookies with Mia.
You can taste the love in the food. It’s the reason Milano’s always has customers.
It’s the reason I wanted to become a chef—I wanted to take it to a new level.
I head into the kitchen and tie the apron I left in his drawer around my waist and look through the refrigerator to see what he’s eaten of the food I left him.
Gio comes to sit at the breakfast bar in a t-shirt that stretches to accommodate his barrel chest and a pair of running shorts. He rubs his jaw and growls when he takes in my outfit. “Baby, you cook for me like that, you’re the only thing that’s gonna be eaten.”
I smile smugly and ignore him, going about my work.
I’m pleased to find he’s devoured almost everything I left. I cut up a little of the steak that should be for tonight’s meal and chop some tomatoes, onions, garlic and basil. Then I pull out eggs, butter and milk and make two big fat omelets.
“I can’t find it in me to feel guilty you’re in my kitchen before you have to go in and cook all night,” Gio says when I slide a plate in front of him. He picks it up. “Bring yours over to the table. And you’re sitting on my lap. You think I can touch this food before I touch you?”
I think I’m blushing. I want to keep my resistance up to his charm, but he keeps chipping away at my defenses. I carry my plate to the table and gasp at the view. I saw it at night, but in the daytime, it’s even more spectacular. Sun streams in through the wall-to-wall windows, sparkles on the waves of Lake Michigan below us.
“This is incredible.”
He pulls me down on his lap, as promised. His lips immediately find my breast and he sucks my nipple until I squirm on his lap, the corresponding tug between my legs growing stronger.
“Beautiful girl. I’m starving but you’re the only thing I want to eat.”
“Don’t offend me—I made this food for you. Mangia, mangia, as my nonna would say.”
“Mmm, all right,” he says reluctantly and helps me stand. “Food first.” He slaps my bare ass as I turn to take a seat opposite him.
We’re silent as we eat. I split my gaze between the view and his handsome face as he shovels the food into his mouth, bobbing his head and making appreciative sounds.
“You were always my favorite Tacone brother,” I admit, wiping my lips with a cloth napkin.
He studies me, amused. “Didn’t know you thought about any of us enough to even have a favorite.”
“Oh I thought about you plenty,” I admit. “You were always kind. You and Stefano. The rest of your brothers scared me.”
“Yeah. We’re the faces,” he says. When he can see I don’t understand, he elaborates, “The ones who do the schmoozing, when it has to be done.”
It brings back home what he is. Who he is. A crime lord. A killer. A member of one of the most dangerous and powerful mafia families in the country. My stomach tightens.
What in the hell am I doing here? This isn’t a game and I’m in way over my head.
I pick up our plates but Gio takes them from me. “I’ll clean up, doll. Thanks for breakfast.”
“I’m going to take a shower and go. I need to get home to change before work.”
“I will drive you,” Gio says firmly.
“No, I’m good. It’s broad daylight. Really.”
Gio stops in the entryway to the kitchen and frowns. He looks at me like he’s going to say something, then just shakes his head and turns into the kitchen.
I take it as a reprieve and escape to his luxurious bathroom. I need to get away from this crazy fantasy world and back to who I am. The Milano girl. Granddaughter of Luigi Milano, who should’ve known better than to get herself tangled in Tacone business.