Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77824 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Our eyes lock, and I see zero compassion and kindness in his predatory gaze. “Do you get panic attacks often?”
No, it’s a special effect you have on me, asshole.
I shake my head, pulling my chin from his hold.
He nods to the doorway. “Finish preparing the food so you can eat and get some rest.”
Without a word, I spin around and rush out of the bathroom. I don’t glance around Renzo’s bedroom, but hurry into the hallway. When I reach the top of the stairs, I remember Dario’s in the apartment, and I’m not sure I want to be alone with the man.
Suddenly Renzo passes me, once again startling the living hell out of me because I didn’t hear him approaching.
I quickly follow him down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Dario’s reading something on his phone. He’s sitting at the island again, and his head lifts when he hears us.
“Happy?” Renzo growls at him.
Dario’s eyes touch on the bandaid around my finger before he smiles. “Yes. It wasn’t that hard, was it?”
“Shut up,” Renzo mutters, but the brutality he has when speaking to me is gone from his tone. “Let’s sit in the living room. I don’t want Skylar losing a finger.”
When the men leave the kitchen, I suck in deep breaths, and closing my eyes, I place my hand on the tense ball of nerves that used to be my stomach.
Jesus. How am I going to survive this nightmare?
Chapter 21
Skylar
While I continue to slice the chicken and fry it in a pan, I hear the two men talking in the living room.
I add garlic and herbs to the pan as Dario says, “You missed a good ballet performance.” There’s pride in his voice. “The company I bought will soon be the best in the country.”
He owns a ballet company?
It’s hard to think a mafia boss cares about arts and culture.
“Watching a bunch of women twirling around on a stage to some boring opera piece is the last thing I’m interested in,” Renzo replies, his tone surprisingly humorous. “I’m more interested in your hacking skills. Have you found out anything new about Castellanos?”
I actually manage to relax a little now that the atmosphere is less tense.
When the chicken is ready, I remove it from the hot pan.
Finding three plates, I arrange sliced avocado, cherry tomatoes, and cucumber slices on a bed of Boston lettuce. I plate the grilled slices of chicken carefully before I return to the pan to fry some corn, which I then sprinkle over the salad.
I’m so focused on what I’m doing I’m no longer listening to the men’s conversation as I make the honey and mustard dressing from scratch.
When it’s ready, I drizzle it over the salad before I wipe the sides of the plates so the presentation is perfect.
“Not bad,” Dario suddenly says from behind me.
He scares the living hell out of me, and I stagger a couple of steps to the side while my hand flies to my thundering heart.
“Jesus,” the word bursts from me, my eyes wide on the men who must’ve returned to the kitchen while I was deep in thought.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Dario actually apologizes.
Renzo lets out an annoyed huff while he walks to the drawers to grab cutlery before he moves past me, slamming the knives and forks down on the island.
“Let’s eat,” he orders.
He takes a seat, and Dario joins him. When I remain standing, he gives me a look of warning.
I quickly sit down and grab a knife and fork. Pulling my plate closer, I cut into the avo, and take a bite.
I keep my eyes focused on my food while the two men’s dangerous and powerful presence makes it hard to enjoy the meal.
Dario lets out a groan, then he says, “The dressing is delicious. How did you get it sweet and tangy?”
“Honey and mustard,” I murmur, not looking up.
“I need you to make me a whole bottle so I can have it at home.”
This time, my eyes flick to Renzo’s face, and he nods.
“Should I make it now?” I ask, not wanting to anger Renzo.
“No. Finish your food.”
I continue to eat and steal glances at the men. For the first time since I was thrown into this hellish nightmare, there’s a tiny burst of warmth in my heart when I see how much they enjoy their salads.
As soon as I’m done eating, I get up and retrieve a mixing bowl from the cupboard. When I start to make the dressing, Dario gets up from his chair, and bringing his plate along, he continues to eat while watching what I’m doing.
“Do you love being a chef?” he asks between bites.
“Yes,” I murmur softly.
“You used to work at Dame, right?”
I nod, not offering any details.
“I read the restaurant got a Michelin Star while you worked there.”