Page 64 of Fatal Sloth
"Crystal clear," she affirms. Her tone is weak, but her compliance is clear.
I couldn't care less about her feelings. She's lucky she got away with just a damn warning.
My arm is still around Mia, who’s staring at Karen, her jaw dropped in shock. I gently push up her chin with my thumb and run it over her bottom lip as I lean in closer, whispering into her ear. “Keep that mouth closed, Piccolina, or I'll have to fill it,” I murmur, my voice husky and low, meant for her ears only.
I can't help but feel a sense of triumph. Standing my ground against her sends a message, not just to her but to everyone present, including her pathetic husband. This isn't my house, but this is my domain, and I won't tolerate disrespect.
And now here I am, going down in history as the don who fights over women’s clothing.
But I can't help but chuckle at Karen's reaction, relishing in her discomfort.
Karen strides towards Peter, her words lost in the hum of the room, just as the chef's voice cuts through the chatter, signaling the start of dinner service. Peter assumes his place at the head of the table, with Karen seated at the opposite end. I settle to the right of Peter, my father's steely gaze meeting mine from across the table, and Mia positioned at my right.
As the servers begin to set our plates, the delicious aroma of filet mignon over a bed of mashed potatoes fills the air, mingling with the crisp fragrance of asparagus. My hunger is growing by the second as the food wafts through the room.
I rest my hand on Mia’s thigh, intending to offer a gentle squeeze, but when I glance over, I notice her hands dancing nervously on her lap, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. Concern flickers in my mind, erasing the calm that had settled over me.
"If you don't eat, you don't get to come tonight," I whisper in her ear, my voice low so nobody can hear me, tinged with a hint of a playful threat.
Her response is swift, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of apprehension and a little defiance. "W-Why? I’m not that hungry. I’ll just eat later when we get home," she says, her voice trembling slightly.
“I thought I warned you about lying to me, Piccolina,” I retort, keeping my tone cool. Her attempt to downplay the situation only fuels my suspicion.
She lets out a shaky breath, “I-I don’t really like this. It’s not a big deal. Let's just get through the night, and I’ll eat later,” Mia stammers, her voice wavering with nervousness and discomfort.
My stomach twists with unease as I eyeball the table. And what the fuck do I see? Mia's plate, just a handful of greens. It's hardly a salad, just a few leaves arranged on a plate. It's an insult how they treat her like she's less than dirt. Meanwhile, I'm surrounded by a feast fit for a king.
My brows knit together in fury and disbelief, especially when I clock Karen's plate—it's a mirror image of Mia's. It's like she's mocking her.
What the fuck is this?
My arm shoots out, snagging one of the passing servers by the collar. "Bring Mia a normal plate," I bark, leaving no room for argument.
“No need, dear, this is her favorite. Tell him, Mia,” Karen insists. Smiling wide with a green chunk of lettuce stuck in between her front teeth.
Ugh, who the fuck is she kidding with this?
Karen's insistence that the dish is Mia's favorite hits me like a slap in the face. My blood boils at her audacious lie, my usually controlled demeanor slipping as I bark out, "Bullshit! And I'm not your fucking dear." I can't stand liars, especially when they're trying to manipulate the truth for their own agenda. Grass isn't anyone's favorite meal.
Cazzo di cagna.
Peter's knuckles turn white as he pounds the table, his frustration palpable. "That's enough!" His voice reverberates through the room, each word laden with anger as he fixes his gaze on Mia. "Mia Russo, how dare you let him speak to your parents like that?"
My voice slashes through the thick tension, slicing it like a blade through flesh. "Remember who the fuck you're talking to," I growl, punctuating each word.
Despite my warning, Peter's stupid retort only ignites my fury further, pushing me dangerously close to the edge. "She’s my daughter. I can speak to her however I wish. This is a family matter," he stutters, his trembling voice betraying his attempt at authority in the face of my unyielding resolve.
A sinister chuckle escapes me. “That’s where you’re wrong, Peter.” This bastard has a lot of nerve. "She stopped being your daughter the day you sold her to the fucking devil," I hiss, my voice dripping with contempt. "She's my wife now," I continue, "and you will treat her with respect." It's a clear warning of consequences should he dare to defy me.
Spit sprays from the corners of Peter’s mouth like venom as he seethes at Mia, his voice a harsh growl. “This is all your fault.” His fury seems endless as he directs his rage at Mia.
"How the fuck is this Mia’s fault?" My heartrate quickens its pace as the situation continues to escalates.
My hand instinctively gravitates toward the weapon at my side, the cold metal offering a reassuring sense of control in this chaos.
With a silent exchange of looks, my soldiers and Enzo stand ready and alert. Mia's chest rises and falls rapidly, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she bolts up from her seat.
But before she can escape, Peter abruptly stands and grabs her arm, his grip tight and menacing. Fear flashes across Mia's face as she meets his gaze. Her eyes widen in terror. She flinches instinctively, turning away and squeezing her eyes shut in a desperate attempt to block him.