Enzo blinks as if caught off guard. "Giovanni," he says but the words are unsure as he turns to study me as if he's just noticing something.
"Are you sure of that?" My words are hoarse and weak.
Enzo doesn't give me a reply but it's all the answer I need.
We enter the kitchen but Giovanni isn't inside sitting at the table like he usually is. The usual cook is at the stove though. Donna, I once hear Giovanni call her. She turns, giving us a smile. "Mr. Costa is already waiting in the dining hall," she says and her smile doesn't fall in the slightest, if anything there's a sort of reverence in her voice as she talks about Giovanni. A reminder that no one here is my friend. They know I'm here under shady means and don't care.
Enzo gives her a nod before heading through the door on the opposite side of the kitchen. He pushes it open and it lets out a small creak on the hinges.
I typically like eating in the dining hall.
The room is twice the size of the kitchen. The warm, golden fluorescent lights brighten up the room. The artwork on the wall is minimal, yet beautiful. This one is twice the size of the one in the kitchen, looking like it can sit a couple dozen people. The Cherrywood glistens, the curve of the back of the chairs immaculate. Giovanni sits with his phone in one hand a glass of something red in the other, he looks like the perfect king, this his throne room, and I the subject he's about to punish.
My lips thin at the thought, knowing there's nothing the man should actually be punishing me for, but there's a certain guilt that hangs on my shoulders every time I think of what Maximo did even though I know it isn't my fault.
You're not supposed to be thinking about it.
Giovanni glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. Last night, in the club, I thought I saw some sort of warmth to him when he'd made it clear Brutus was to leave me alone. But when his eyes move to mine, I don't miss the disdain in them. "I didn't think your hair could get any worse," he says, his words cold and sharp, "but I've been proven wrong."
I didn't even bother to look at the straightened locks this morning, but I have no doubt they're a mess. "I don't have a silk scarf or bonnet," I tell him. "And I don't have combs or brushes to wrap it either." Because as long as my hair isn't wrapped at night time, it'll continue to tangle and frizz up. I've been lucky to have it look as nice as it has up to this point.
Giovanni doesn't look impressed. He moves his gaze to Enzo and gives him a nod before his attention returns to his phone. "Sit," he instructs me.
I think about sitting in the chair furthest from him but I learned my lesson about that a long time ago. So instead, I slide into the seat just to his right, surprised by how soft the cushion is in the chair.
I keep my gaze down and don't say a word as I patiently wait. If Giovanni wants to say something to me, then he will. If he wants this to be one of those quiet breakfasts where his foreboding presence fills the room, suffocating the words, it's going to happen.
I look up when the door opens. Donna comes into the room, still smiling. She places a tray in front of Giovanni before placing one in front of me and I instantly begin to survey, to see the differences. Giovanni has those fluffy pancakes again, bacon, eggs, and grapes on the side. A thick dark syrup sits in a small glass bowl and I watch with envy as he dunks one of the pancakes in it.
The flat basic pancakes are on my plate again, sausage, eggs, and strawberries on the side. I can't help but to wonder who in the hell keeps picking out our meals. I know the answer when my eyes land on the devil next to me, And once again, I wonder about my outfit.
Giovanni's eyes meet mine and I look away, picking up the sausage from my plate and taking a bite.
"Don't eat with your hands, it's not classy," he says, his tone stifled.
I grit my jaw, but pick up my fork and knife, cutting the sausage into small pieces. I put so much force behind it, I expect the plate to break. I shove the pieces into my mouth, one by one. I lock my jaw down when I have the urge to eat with my mouth open just to hear about my lack of class again.
He'll probably just slap the shit out of you this time if you do it again.
So I don't bother.
We eat our food in silence and it seems like Giovanni catches me every time I sneak a glance at him so eventually I stop looking. When I'm done with my food, I can't help but to stare at the glass of orange juice in front of me in disgust.
I know they have other things in this place to drink. I've seen Giovanni have coffee, tea, and whatever the red stuff is in his glass today. And Vito had snuck me some tea the one time he joined us. So why in the hell do I keep getting stuck with he disgusting, bitter, tangy stuff.
I don't touch the glass.
A couple minutes later a servant comes in the room and she goes to pick up my tray.
"Don't," Giovanni's voice cuts through the room. "Your drink," he says as his eyes lock with mine. He leans forward slightly in his seat and it's all I can do not to cringe away from him. I have a feeling he wouldn't react well if I did.
I wrap my fingers around the cool glass, trying my best to ignore the taste.
It can't be worse than the taste of Max's filthy fingers in your mouth.
I almost gag at the thought alone.
When I finish off the juice, I place the empty glass back on the table with a little more force than I should. Giovanni lifts a brow but he doesn't say anything, instead pointing that the servant can now take the trays.