Devil You Hate (The Diavolo Crime Family 1)

“I’m only taking your arm because if I don’t, I’ll probably break my neck,” I explain as I loop my arm in his.

He grins. “You act like I’m giving you a choice.”

All I can do is shake my head because any response from me right now may result in my untimely death. On our walk downstairs, I see his house is still shiny and big and not at all like the hard man who has been using me brutally.

The dining room is as elegant as everything else. A long table bisects the room, candles dot the surface, as do trays of steaming food. Enough for an army of people. My mouth waters as we walk the length of the table, the scents of roasted meat and vegetables overwhelming even my anger and arousal.

He sits at the head of the table like a king might and leads me to stand beside him. I stare at the table and find that there aren’t any more chairs. I glare, wondering what kind of game he is playing while he arranges his napkin over one of his muscled thighs.

“You can stand and watch me eat or if you’re hungry—”

As if on cue, my belly lets out a long, loud rumble that I know even he can hear. He snorts. It’s not a laugh but more of a grunt, and he pats his other knee. “You can sit on my lap.”

The idea enrages me. “I’m not a child,” I say, the leash on my rage growing thinner by the minute. My stomach grumbles once more, the smell of the delicious foods doing a number on my ability to fight him.

When he faces the food again, clearly intent on eating it all, I surge forward and position myself on his leg, my own clenched together between his thighs. In this position, my dress isn’t long enough to cover my pussy, which is now rubbing against his slacks.

It's not as uncomfortable as this dress feels. It’s so fucking scratchy all over. It’s tough for me to remain still.

“Was that so hard?” he whispers into the shell of my ear and slides a piece of steak from a tray and onto his plate.

Deliberately, he cuts it into tiny bites and then spears several on the end of a fork. To my surprise, he hands me the fork, allowing me to feed myself. Before he pulls away, he clutches my fingers tight around the handle. His grip bites into my flesh, and I wince.

“If you think to stab me with this, you will not like the consequences.” A deadly menace laces his tone.

I nod once and shove the food into my mouth. Of course, Sarah, the bitchy housekeeper, makes delicious steak. It doesn’t mean I hate her any less for her involvement in holding me hostage.

We continue eating for several minutes. As I clean my fork each time, he skewers more food, steak, asparagus, and tender potatoes on it. Carefully passing me the food to not force or spill on me. He’s gentle and almost kind, but I can’t forget the monster he really is.

We’ve decimated two plates of food when the door at the end of the dining room creaks open. I freeze mid-chew and stop to monitor the man entering the room.

His ripped black jeans and expensive white button down are at odds with the tattoos covering him and the riot of hair going in all directions like he’s just gotten up and ran his fingers through it. His menacing gaze and down-turned lips make him unapproachable. The clatter of the fork against the plate jerks me back to the present.

My first instinct is to run, the fear in the pit of my stomach tightening. I don’t realize I’m shaking until Nicolo grips my hips tightly, pulling me closer and whispering into my ear.

“He won’t touch you.”

The man drags a chair from the side of the dining room to the table and parks himself to my left. The table is large, and there is a good amount of space between us, but not enough for me. He’s close enough that it wouldn’t take much to reach out and grab me. The idea makes me tremble more.

“Lucas,” Nicolo warns, obviously sensing my fear.

The man—Lucas—glares back at him and drags food onto his own plate without a word of acknowledgment to either of us. All I can do is sit there, a shaking mess, and stare at him.

He eats loudly, almost sloppily, like an animal feasting. Anticipation of the unknown has me on my toes, and eventually, he reaches out, his fingers snagging the edge of my dress where it cuts across my shoulder blades.

“I didn’t realize you were dressing up your whores now,” he addresses Nicolo, completely ignoring my presence.

Nicolo growls at him, actually growls, like a dog protecting its bone. Without warning, he lifts me off his lap and sets me on my feet. My legs almost collapse under me as I teeter in the heels. I grab onto the table just in time to keep myself from falling.