Raised by the Mafia

7. Peace Talks (Mila)

Don't you just love it when your words have a strong effect on men? I sure do, even if the man in question is a scruffy PI, who was once a hotshot FBI agent. Even if he's someone who hates my guts, liver and toes.

The expression on Ryan's face is marvelous, just marvelous! He's a perfect specimen to use in a class on conflicting emotions.

"Don't look at me like that! Or I might need another croissant to get over the rejection."

"Do you always eat that way?" he asks without bothering to conceal his disgust.

After Luca, his honesty is refreshing, but it doesn't mean I'm ready to lay my soul bare before him. The last thing I ate was a crumb I licked off my finger after the bowl incident. This was sixteen grueling hours ago. Sixteen hours of scheming and self-grooming. Also, crying a little, but Ryan really doesn't need to know that one.

"Not always, no! But I'm so nervous around you, Mr. Lee, it makes me binge eat." I bat my eyelashes and split another croissant in half. "Hmm, herbal butter or goat cheese, what do you think?"

"Both. And toss out the bread. It just gets in the way of your gluttony."

"Toss out this?" The pastry's soft underbelly opens to me. "Never!"

Ryan sighs, and a vision of the flaky goodness absolutely slathered--and I'm not talking about the croissant here--appears in my mind. The higher power has spoken. "Herbal butter it is."

He winces, watching the butter knife slide over the already buttery half-moon like I'm ironing his dick. The suppressed temper suits his thin-featured, long face, I decide. When he twists his lips like that, they pop out against his tanned skin. Too bad he wouldn't eat in the mornings, it would do these gaunt cheeks some good.

"Why do you want to marry me?" Ryan asks and winces again.

Oh, look! The right question. That's another plus in his favor. Give me a man full of questions when I have all the answers he so desperately craves. I might come to like my future husband. "Because if I marry you, Luca loses."

A strand of black hair, left uncut for far too long, slips down and dangles over his brow. He got the grunge down pat, but I bet there's a presentable man underneath his noire persona. A generous application of shampoo, a shave, a long bath, a cup of coffee, a tailored suit, some TLC—and Ryan will do just fine.

Ryan, fine... it even rhymes.

But what's with the twinge to lather the suds into his mop personally, along with that earlier imagining of his buttered parts?

Yes, yes, I would want a quality job performed on my diamond in the rough, but due diligence has its limits. I give my head a small shake to get rid of the persistent image of my fingers threading his wet hair. Marriage—yes, intimacy—no. After Luca I needed an extended vacation from heartbreak.

Besides, there are far sexier things to dream about, like the one I share with my groom-to-be. "Picture this, Ryan. You and I waltz into the ballroom, the newlyweds brimming with happiness. Luca gets humiliated in front of everyone he's jumping out of his skin to impress. We win. He loses."

Seductive, right?

He stifles an annoyed sigh. "And then what? We spread rumors on Instagram that Luca has syphilis? Nazarevich, that's a pitiful plan."

"Ha!" I kick the table's leg with the toe of my shoe. "And what revenge scheme have you've hatched after all these years, my darling?"

For a split second I think his final reaction to my revenge fantasy will be to upturn the table and run out of the coffee shop. Or yell at me.