Captured by the Mob (Bianchi Crime Family 2)

I jump off the bed and call out before he can finish closing it. “Wait. You cook?”

He steps back in the room and cracks a killer smile that nearly has me on my ass or my knees. What the hell is going on with my libido? Did they spike my food? “Not all the time, but since it’s just the two of us in here, someone had to cook.”

“It’s just you and me?” I question. Where are his servants that took care of my food today? Hell, I didn’t even touch the lunch the one dude brought up because I was too sleepy from the breakfast that I inhaled to do more than take a bite of my sandwich.

He crosses the distance, closing in to within a foot of me. Arching his brow, he warns, “Yes, but don’t think of running. I’ll catch you and bend you over, spanking that cute ass of yours.” I try to hide the lust circling my nervous system.

“Fine. Lead me to the food. I’m starving.”

“Wow, was that so hard?” he questions, like I don’t have a reason to be upset by this whole thing.

“Not as hard as your head,” I mutter, following behind him. The other guy isn’t there anymore, so we must really be alone. My pulse picks up a couple of notches.

“Either one of them,” he says with a chuckle, which resonates through me as if he’s strumming my clit like a guitar. Why am I attracted to a killer?

“So what is it that you do?” I ask, changing the subject and not taking the bait. After all, this place is a mansion and since I witnessed him take someone out… or did I? Now that I think about it, he wasn’t there when I woke up. No. He was most certainly dead.

“What I do?” he repeats as he turns and looks back at me as we walk through the entryway down to another corridor. I see the front door, but I ignore the urge to even take a more sparing glance. I reason that I can’t escape before he catches me.

“I’m the second-in-command for the Bianchi family.”

“Second-in-command? So you take orders from someone else? Don’t you want to be… what do you call it? The Don?”

He spins on his heel, glaring down at me like I hit a sore spot. Gripping me around my biceps without squeezing hard, he clears his throat and says, “No. Not now, not ever. That spot belongs to my cousin, and I’d never do anything to hurt him or his family. Why? Does that bother you that I don’t run his empire?”

“No. Just testing your loyalty.”

“And did I pass?”

“It’s not a pass or fail.”

We finally reach a large double-door entryway and he opens it, stepping in first. “Well, come on through here and don’t think about the knives. I’d hate for you to cut yourself.”

Snapping my fingers at the missed opportunity, I sneer and remark, “Damn, you’re on top of it. Do you normally kidnap people?”

There’s a smug expression on his chiseled face that turns to lust in those penetrative eyes. “Not normally, but I never bring them home.” I blush, knowing he wants to fuck me. I’m starting to believe that’s the only reason he hasn’t offed me.

“So what are you making?” I ask, taking a seat on a stool in front of the kitchen island, which is full of food being prepped.

“I’m making homemade ravioli,” he says as he slips on an apron. How is that even sexy? It’s a light gray one that says Great Cooks are Italian. A pang of jealousy hits me as I consider who bought that for him, which is crazy because I’m his prisoner. I’ve got Stockholm Syndrome seeping into my brain, making its home there. I’m betting it’s because of the movie and has nothing to do with the fact that he’s gorgeous and my life here is better than where it was heading.

“Wow, and you said you don’t cook often, but you got a fancy apron?”

“Well, I am Italian, and my zia bought it for me for Christmas.” I watch him as he rubs an egg wash over the puffy pasta.

“Sorry—zia?”

“Yes, it means aunt.”

“Oh. Yeah, sorry. I’m Irish and whatever mix my parents had.” He’s listening while pressing the fork to the pasta, sealing it closed in a smooth flowing pace. “You make it look easy.”

“The trick is practice. Would you like something to drink?” he asks, taking a drink from a glass with red wine in it.

“I’m not old enough to drink.” He ducks his head, scowling at me. “Okay, so you’re not above breaking the law.”

“I do have non-alcoholic drinks, but with the food, I do have the perfect wine.”

“Juice would be good. I need something other than water.” He turns around and goes to the fridge. I think about running, but my feet remain planted. I should dash as fast as I can away from here, and yet here I am, sitting like a good girl. It’s not like I know where I am or how to get out of here before he could find me, I keep reasoning to myself.