Page 17 of Mafia And Maid
It looks like she’s no longer with that stuck-up stiff she married—I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But it’s none of my business. I don’t give a fuck about what’s going on in Davis’s family—although by the look of her, she clearly no longer has the benefit of the Davis money. She’s just a woman in need of work, and the only thing I care about is her doing a good job for us.
Two of our soldiers across from where I sit are going on and on about yet another problem with distribution. I haven’t been able to focus on any of it. Instead, my attention keeps flitting to the woman a few tables down who is writing her details on an application form.
“Boss?”
My gaze snaps back to them. “I’m listening.”
“Who is she?”
“No one you need to know,” I growl.
Both men nod and don’t dare to even look in her direction again.
My eyes wander back over to Rosa and her beautiful curves. I catch her flinch as a customer shouts at their win. She’s a timid thing and jittery with it.
I take the last swig of what’s left in my glass, allowing the burn of alcohol to clear the thoughts away.
But a small yelp sounds. And my head whips toward Rosa, a low grumble of annoyance reverberating through my chest as the same customer shouts out yet again as the roulette wheel gives him another win.
I call another soldier over to my table with a flick of my hand. “He’s drunk.” I jerk my chin toward the customer. “Throw him the fuck out.”
“Boss, he’s teetotal. I’ve never seen a drop of alcohol pass his lips. And he’s one of the casino’s biggest spenders every month—”
“Do it,” I snap.
“But…”
“Now!” I roar.
“Got it, boss.” He strides off, and I watch while he carries out my order. The customer isn’t happy and is threatening never to grace our casino again. Like I give a fuck.
And as I look over at Rosa again, I realize that I have no idea why I just acted like this...
On my way back to my car, I keep thinking about this woman. I shake my head. Why am I even still thinking about her? I must just feel sorry for her.
That has to be it. Because she said it herself—she has zero experience. And with her complete lack of confidence, I can’t see any job with us working out for her.
***
Last night, I managed to get out of cooking dinner by ordering takeout. But Alessio was less than impressed and told me that tonight he expects a home-cooked meal—or he’s going to whip my ass.
I decide to make pizza. That can’t be too hard, right? It’s just dough, you sling toppings onto it, and you shove it into the oven.Even I can manage that.
I’ll also have to break the news to my brothers that I haven’t found a maid, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
On the way home, I drop by the deli and pick up some readymade pizza crusts. It’s sort of cheating, but my brothers won’t ever find out. Ever since Alessio’s been on his latest health kick, he’s become obsessive about only eating stuff that’s fresh and homecooked. I don’t see what’s wrong with takeout, but the way he looked at the food I ordered last night would make anyone think that it was food that I’d scavenged from the trash.
While I’m at the deli, I also pick up some corn on the cob. With that shoved in Alessio’s mouth, hopefully, I won’t have to hear any more fucking whining from him.
Getting home, I look up how to cook pizza on my phone. Scratching the back of my head, I read through it twice and then get to work.
Right on time, I hear my brothers arrive home. Shit, I forgot all about the corn. An acrid smell is coming from the oven, and I snatch the pizzas out, burning the tip of one of my fingers. “Fuck,” I growl.
“That burning smell better not be our dinner,” Alessio drawls as he and Marco take a seat at the kitchen counter.
I put the pizza in the center, and throwing the corn onto a platter, I add that too. Marco grabs some beers, and we’re all set.
Even Mr. F, a large rust-colored Chow Chow dog, has woken up from his lazy slumber—the animal is sitting next to the counter, panting loudly as he waits expectantly for us to share the food. The dog’s full name is ‘Mr. Fluffy,’ but we usuallycall him ‘Mr. F’.