Married to the Mafia Boss I Slept With (Champagne Venom)

A few minutes later, the kitchen doors burst back open and my new best friend stalks through. Again, I'm pretty sure this is just a hallucination, a cruel trick of my calorie-starved brain, but I could swear the light of heaven is shining down on the pizza he's bearing in his hand and a chorus of holy angels is oohing and ahhing at his every step. He drops it in front of me with a not-particularly-subtle sneer, but I couldn't care less-matter of fact, I could plop a juicy kiss right on his thin, peeling lips; that's how grateful I am. Before he's made it two steps away, I'm already two bites deep. Marinara smears on my cheek where the third bite misses my mouth a bit, but the taste of hot mozzarella hitting my tongue is like an orgasm for my taste buds. I moan-literally, not figuratively. It's loud enough for the maître d', who's resumed his vantage point at the front of the restaurant, to turn and give me a nasty glare. I just smile back with a mouthful of cheese. The fourth bite is as good as the first three, and the fifth is even better than that. My whole body unclenches as I go to town like a starving racoon. It's only when I'm on the verge of picking up the plate to lick up the crumbs that I remember my whole "spread it out over three days" plan. As soon as I do, I'm hit with a wave of nauseous guilt that's almost as bad as the hunger was. Fuck. Okay, Paige, I counsel myself, just breathe. This is all fine. It's gonna all be fine. You have a full belly now-well, sort of-so you can think clearly, and you'll solve this. You made it through losing Clara, and you loved her, so you can definitely make it through losing Anthony, because he was a piece of shit and you're better off without him. Weirdly enough, that little pep talk actually does the job. All credit goes to the pizza-cheese really does work miracles. But then the maître d' drops the bill on my table, and my world flips upside down again. I read the number on the bottom of the check half a dozen times. But it doesn't change. Sixty-one dollars... "Is this a joke?" I gasp out loud. He freezes halfway across the room, pivots robotically like a Nutcracker doll, and marches back over to me. "No part of this is a 'joke,' ma'am," he spits. He says "ma'am" the way you'd say "mutt" to a dog that just bit your child. I shiver at the casual, dismissive cruelty. "Sixty-one dollars for a pizza has to be a joke," I insist. "Was there gold leaf in the crust or something?" "Is that an actual question?" "No," I retort, "it's an outrage." The man's face quickly sours. "I'm afraid I have no control over the menu, ma'am. Or the pricing. You'll need to pay for what you consumed." "Are you sure you don't want to just cut out my kidneys instead?" I snap. "Ma'am-" "I really, really need you to not call me that." "Listen, miss-" "No!" I jump up, knocking my chair over backwards. The front door chimes just then as a couple walks in off the street, bundled up against the cold, but beautiful and beautifully matched together. They both gawk at me with jaws wide open. I know how I must look to them: crazy. Unhinged. My hair is a mess and my eyes are still red from all the crying I've done over the last two days, and I'm yelling at this stupid, condescending server for something that is maybe partially but not really his fault. This is rock bottom, I think. Turns out it smells like pizza. Who knew? "I'm not paying sixty-one dollars for a pizza," I insist, my voice catching and wobbling dangerously. "You will pay," the man snarls. He reaches for me, that pale, grasping claw of a hand looming closer and closer like something out of a nightmare. I swat it away and stumble backwards. There's a hall behind me that leads to the bathrooms and, at the very end of it, a black door marked EXIT. I trip my way there, feeling frantic and desperate. The walls are closing in around me. The maître d' follows. His face is twisted into an enraged mask. "Listen here, you stupid bitch, you are not running out on my-" "Francesco." My head snaps to the side. I hadn't even noticed there was another door in the hallway. But there is, and it's open, and there's a man standing on the threshold. He's huge, tall enough to almost brush the ceiling, and broad enough to take up the whole of the entryway. The intensity of his pale gray eyes takes me by surprise. I find myself leaning away from him on pure instinct. Something about him terrifies me. "Mr. Orlov," the maître d' balks, his demeanor changing immediately to contrite and submissive. "I'm sorry about this, sir. This woman is trying to-" The man holds up a hand. Francesco-how fitting; a stupid name for a stupid guy-clams up instantly. Then the man looks at me. He doesn't blink, and I can't help but stare back. Those eyes are shockingly silver. Full moon on a cold night kind of silver. "What is your name?" I swallow, suddenly afraid for reasons I don't think I could ever possibly explain. "Paige," I croak. He's undeniably gorgeous-roguish five o'clock shadow, dazzlingly white teeth, a devil-may-care je ne sais quoi that radiates from him like if "getting into trouble" were a cologne. But beneath that is a darkness I can't touch or name. That's what scares me. Silver Eyes nods like he expected exactly that. "Are you still hungry, Paige?" I hesitate. I'm considering not saying anything, but then the undeniably loud rumble of my still-famished stomach betrays me. The corner of Silver Eyes's mouth twitches at the noise. I'm pretty sure it's the closest he'll ever get to a smile. "I thought so," he murmurs. Without looking away, he tells Francesco, "Put what Ms. Paige ate on my tab. She and I will also take a pollo e funghi and a sorrentina. You can bring both items to my table." "Y-yes, sir," Francesco stammers. He bows, then scurries away. I almost miss him when he's gone. He's a rat bastard, but I'd rather take my chances with him than with this handsome, terrifying man who gives orders like he's a god and looks at me like I'm butt-naked on my knees in front of him. No, scratch that-he looks at me like he can see straight through to my soul. To every bad thing I've ever done. He looks at me like he knows me. "Come with me, Paige," he commands quietly, in a tone of voice that says it's not really a question. "I want to hear your story." I gulp as he brushes past me. Correction to my earlier statement: rock bottom does not smell like pizza. Rock bottom smells like him.