Page 40 of Mafia And Maid
He looks up. “Look, Rosa, I don’t know what happened to you before you got here—”
“I-I…” My words stutter out in horror.
He puts his hand up to stop me. “I don’t care about your past.” He looks at me carefully. “But you can’t let fear take you over. You’re more than capable—you proved it the night we were shot. Sure, you were a little shaky, but you managed to hold your own. Your confidence is in there somewhere, buried under all the doubt and anxiety. You just have to let it out.”
We hear the front door open, and Alessio and Camillo’s voices drift toward us. And with that, Marco turns and walks away.
***
Later that week, I’m in the kitchen and hum softly as I finish putting the oat and honey flapjacks on the cooling rack. The house is quiet. The Marchiano brothers have gone to do whatever it is they do. I try my hardest to keep my mind off that very topic.
I don’t have a plan to get away from here yet. I should, but it’s moments like this when the estate is at ease that I feel oddly safe.
It’s wrong to feel this way. But my brain doesn’t seem to realize that this house of vipers is just as bad, if not worse, than Grayden’s mansion.
But that’s not exactly true, is it? I’ve adjusted to the harsh commands and tones of the Marchiano men—their barked orders and eccentric way of doing things. They have a ferocious bark, but I’ve yet to see any of them bite. They’re harsh but not insulting.
Maybe that makes me naïve. Grayden didn’t have nearly as bad a bark, but his bite was deadly. I should have learned this lesson already.
But watching how the brothers interact with each other at meals or in daily life, I’ve seen brief glimpses of something different lurking past the hard veneer of these made men. It’s not tender by any means, but it’s there. They fiercely protect and love each other.
Envy crawls through my chest. I want that, but I don’t deserve it. That’s reserved for someone who’s better than me. Someone who’s worthy and not unlovable. Grayden never said he loved me, but he didn’t hesitate to tell me how much he hated me.
I shake my head of these thoughts, turning back to my next task.
I’ve come up with a system for dealing with the estate. I tackle the ground level before anyone wakes up, see to breakfast, and then, turn my attention to the first-floor rooms and laundry. From there, the day blurs until I’m setting out the food for dinner.
My stomach churns and clenches every time my gaze lands on the polished wood floor. Phantom splotches of blood linger there, despite having scoured them away.
It should scare me, and it does, but not enough to give up this job.
Pushing the thoughts away, I focus on setting the table. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. I don’t take breaks unless dizziness sets in, and even then, it’s only for a quick nibble of a cracker before I go back to work. I don’t want anyone to think I’m slacking.And skipping another meal won’t kill me.
The heavy thud of a discarded gym bag hitting the floor echoes through the house. It’s early for anyone to be back, but it’s not my place to say it.
Camillo strides into the room, his face glistening with sweat, and a few loose strands that have fallen from his usual knot are plastered to his face.
Surprisingly, my small bubble of serenity doesn’t shatter even with the intrusion from him.
He’s wearing black sweats that hug his muscular thighs and one of those work out tanks with large armholes that show off the ropes of muscles beneath. The black ink that crawls over both his arms is exposed, and I swear the smokey effect moves with every flex of his body.
He makes a beeline to the fridge without a word. And I watch as he guzzles down water from a large bottle. The way his throat works andthe trickle of a single drop from the corner of his lips to his chest... My eyes drop to the counter as I feel heat crawl up my neck.
The crinkle of plastic makes me jump. It’s too loud and too sudden. And seeing his massive hands curling around the plastic and crushing it makes my heart rate triple.
I try not to look at him, but I can’t help a glance as he grabs another bottle. His knuckles are battered and freshly bruised.
Alessio said he needed Camillo to take care of a problem. I’m not stupid enough to forget that Camillo is the muscle and deals with the messier side of things. That much I’ve been able to figure out.
I can’t tear my eyes away from his hands as he crushes the empty bottle again. I’m enraptured by it.
“What’s for dinner?”
My eyes snap up to his, holding them for a quick moment. I glance away and clear my throat to keep the words from shaking. “I was planning on making beef ravioli with a pumpkin sauce.”
“Sounds great.” He goes to walk off but then pauses. “Can you make some of that garlic bread again? It was delicious.”
I give the tiniest nod, pleased that my cooking has improved no end since that little pep talk from Marco.