Each woman who spoke sank to their knees, begging for forgiveness.
Anger rushed through him. His chef had cleaned her plate in dirty water, not fit to drink. The same with her water, it was taken from the dog bowls where they drank. Not that he had any dogs, but he knew strays wandered on the property from time to time, but rarely ever stayed.
“And no one thought to report it to me?” he asked.
No one spoke.
Milah had been suffering in silence. She’d been eating food not fit for human consumption, and he had figured she was just being testy. He couldn’t believe this.
Staring at the men and women before him, he nodded at the guard to take them away. They were not to be given food or water, and then he looked toward the chef. “Take him to the basement,” he said.
“You cannot do this. I have served you and your father, and your grandfather. I am to be respected.”
Damon grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward him. “Do I look like my father standing here? Do you think he would have allowed you to walk free after nearly poisoning my guest?”
“She is a Russo whore!”
He slammed his fist in the guy’s face, instantly breaking his nose. Blood spilled down his face, and he threw him toward the guards, making them take him away. He would deal with him later.
Wiping the blood from his knuckles, he glanced toward Milah. She hadn’t moved an inch. Her body shook.
He grabbed her arm, and she flinched, but didn’t look away.
“Come on,” he said.
Marching her into the kitchen, she tried to fight him, but he had hold of her hips and got her moving until she rounded the counter and stood in front of the stove. “Cook yourself something.”
“Damon, it is fine.”
He pressed his back against hers, banding an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. “It is not fine.” His lips brushed against her neck. “You will eat something, and the next time food is served to you, do not eat it.”
“I … I … I’m a Russo, Damon. They don’t like me.”
“Do I look like I care? You are my guest and you will be treated with respect.” He kept his hand on her stomach, admiring the curve of her neck. Imagining how good it would feel to have her so close.
It wasn’t time yet.
Milah had to warm to him for his plans to work. This might just be the start he needed. “You know how to cook.”
He didn’t want to let her go, but to allow her to cook, he needed to. Removing his hands from her body, he didn’t like how disappointed that made him feel to let her go.
He rounded the counter and watched her.
At first, she stared at the stove, not moving.
If he had to, he’d force-feed her something, even if it had to be raw.
Milah suddenly moved, going to the fridge, and he watched as she grabbed some cheese and butter. She rummaged through the kitchen and came back with some bread. She spread some bread, added a slice of cheese, and then spread the other side.
He wondered what she was doing, but she put the bread to one side, and then went back to the fridge.
Within a matter of minutes, she had some shallots, celery, and garlic sizzling in a pan. Next, she added in some tomatoes, fresh, and some from a can, bringing it together with a small splash of vegetable stock.
With the tomato mixture bubbling away, she got to work looking through all of the cupboards and came out with a stick blender. She removed the pan from the heat, placing it on a metal rack, and then, she added in some whole basil leaves before putting in the blender and blitzing.
The scents were amazing.
She blended up her mixture. Put the pot back on to boil, and then got another pan. She heated it up, put the sandwich with the butter side down, spread the other side with some more, and then after a few minutes, flipped it.
“Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” he said.
Milah smiled. “A firm favorite when you’re coming in from the cold.”
She put the sandwich on a chopping board and ran her knife through it. Then served up a ladle full of the soup. “Would you like to try some?”
“I’ve … yes,” he said.
Milah handed him the plate, and he was about to question her, but she was already making another sandwich.
Within minutes, she served herself another bowl of soup and moved toward him. She took a seat beside him, dipping her grilled cheese into her soup then taking a bite.
This woman could cook.
The food was good, and he hated to admit it was even better than the steak he’d just consumed.