Devil You Hate (The Diavolo Crime Family 1)

She flops the ball of dough she’d been kneading on a wooden cutting board and crosses to the refrigerator. When she returns, she shoves a carton of eggs and a couple of cheese slices at me.

Eggs. Okay, I’ve seen people make eggs on TV; it can’t be that difficult, right? I find a skillet quickly enough, then approach the giant stovetop. Its black metal grates rise above the surface of the stove, and fire leaps underneath at the turn of a knob.

Pan. Heat. I stare down at the eggs, little brown orbs neatly nestled in the gray carton. The other maids are gone now. The only person left in the kitchen besides me is the grouchy lady, and no way am I going to ask her for help. My eyes dart to the knife block, which is in easy reach. Would she notice one missing? Do I even have a chance if I rush out of here with it? I’d most likely have a better chance at stabbing myself than someone else.

I stare at the knife block a little too long, contemplating my next move before letting a sigh escape my lips. No, I can’t do it. If I take it, I might have to use it and stab someone in my path, someone simply doing their job. Yeah, I couldn’t. I’m a fucking coward. The thought of hurting someone that might be innocent makes my stomach churn.

Slowly, I turn my attention back to the eggs and begin cracking them into a bowl. It takes me ten minutes to get the tiny pieces of shell out before I can even attempt to cook them. I should leave them in there just to spite him, but I’m afraid of what he might do to me if I don’t pass this small task.

Strangely, I feel a sense of accomplishment as I watch the eggs turn from a clear runny mess to a white and yellow mess. She didn’t specify how he wanted them, so I did the best I could before throwing them on a plate. It doesn’t bode well that they really don’t look appetizing, but my stomach growls loudly as I stare down at them. And I know if I had the chance, I’d eat them.

The woman gives me a couple oranges when I hand her the plate. “Those are for you. Follow me up to his office and hurry. He’s already going to be angry that it took you so long.”

Perfect. Can I turn one of these oranges into a strong enough weapon to disable him? Probably not, but it doesn’t stop me from imagining it as I follow her through the house. It has to be as big as my father’s. Cut crystal and modern furniture throughout, the floors in the halls are marble, the entire house is posh. No surprise considering his clothes and the literal parking garage on his property.

We enter a room down from the bedroom I slept in. The woman sets a plate and a cup of coffee, I never saw her pour, on the desk and rushes out. I turn to follow her, an orange in each hand, but the monster speaks up.

“No, you stay.” He gestures at an armchair to the side of his desk against the wall. “Sit.”

Even the grumpy lady’s presence is preferable to his, but I do as he tells me to keep the peace a little longer. Maybe we can go a day without him touching me inappropriately. Ha, probably not.

I arrange myself on the chair, ensuring my legs are covered by his shirt, and stare at him. His dark hair is slicked back, and his eyes are menacing, even early in the morning. I wonder if he goes to bed and plans to be an evil monster every day or if something made him this way?

He’s immersed in studying a ledger but points at the plate. “What the fuck is this?”

I lean forward to look at it. “Eggs.”

He drags his eyes up to mine, a sneer on his full lips. “Did you cook this?”

Instead of answering right away, I stare down at the fruit in my hand and dig a nail into the soft flesh of the orange. I can feel his eyes on me, and no matter how much I want to deny it, his mere presence makes me squirm.

“Yes, I made it. I don’t exactly know how to cook, but I tried.”

“Of course, you don’t, princess. You’ve always had someone to do it for you, am I right?”

I blink at him. Every word he speaks is a knife slicing through my skin.

“What do you want from me?” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but it’s hard with the way he treats me. “Yes, I’ve never had to cook before. I’m sorry I grew up the way I did. I can’t change that, and forcing me to be your maid isn’t going to produce a good breakfast. What’s the point?”