Lucien
The Mafia Don knew he would crush his friend's face if he stayed, and he had no intention of scaring the children. He turned and strode toward the house, determined to take out his frustration on his wife. But she was in the kitchen, her hair tied in a messy bun, tendrils curling around her flushed cheeks and long neck, her arms deep in the dough as she prepared dinner. She was surrounded by the kitchen staff, who stood around, watching her with interest. Beatrice stood close by, talking rapidly, watching over Proserpina with pride.
He stood in the doorway, studying the cozy atmosphere. The Mafia Don felt like a stranger in his own house. His burly bodyguards lingered uncertainly in the doorway. The Boss never went to the kitchen; he had never needed to. But now, he stood there, flexing his shoulders, undecided.
Suddenly, the conversation in the room stilled as the staff became aware of the Boss lurking in the doorway, his men behind him. The maids began to slither away, panic written large on their downturned faces. Beatrice scowled at him as she saw his grim face. But he was looking at his woman, who was busy kneading dough, her back to him, her long hair piled untidily in a bun at the top of her head. She had been talking to the elderly woman and suddenly became aware of the change in the atmosphere.
Proserpina turned quickly, and her cheerful expression melted away. A shutter came down on her face as she stood silently, the bowl of dough before her, waiting for him to speak.
"I need to talk to you," he said grimly, swaying on his feet. Lucien Delano had been drinking all afternoon, but the sight of the little figure before him, her big brown eyes fixed on his face apprehensively, had the power to make his groin harden. He growled,
"Now."
But to his astonishment, she looked mutinous as she tipped her chin and said quietly,
"I'm making chicken curry and Indian bread. It's going to take some time."
And then, she turned her back to him, that lovely spine stiff as she said,
"I will come later."
The message was brazenly rude. He, the Mafia Don, would have to wait for her to become free.
As the Boss stood, his fists clenching as he turned to leave because of the rude dismissal from the little lady, she turned.
She met his narrow-eyed gaze with courage and defiance, and he scowled as he turned to leave, somehow amazed and furious that she could turn down an order from HIM!
But her next words, floating in the air like a soft whisper, stopped him abruptly.
"Will you join us for dinner?" came her melodious albeit hesitant voice, stiff with formality, and he turned to look over his broad shoulder at her, his harsh profile a threatening mask.
Proserpina licked her lips nervously, and his gaze fixed on those luscious lips.
Had she really invited him to have dinner? The Mafia Don wanted to laugh out loud at the ludicrousness of the situation.
It was his house, yet his woman was inviting him to dinner?
But the darn housekeeper was playing Devil's Advocate now.
"Indian curry and naan; that's Mr. James's favorite," added Beatrice with a coy smile on her weathered face, and a bolt of fury raced through his veins. "And he loves the ones she makes, soft and buttery."
So James Schwartz had entrenched himself into the household and already had favorite dishes here, at HIS house, fumed Lucien as his large fists bunched in rage.
"Then I shall leave after dinner," he snapped and turned on his heel, striding to his study, his bodyguards trotting after him.
***
He was still in his study, in his shirt sleeves, gulping his third tumbler of whiskey when Schwartz entered an hour later, looking relaxed and happy.
Probably having charmed every woman along the way, thought Lucien, scowling darkly.
"Indian curry and naan? So you come here to flirt with my wife and eat the food she prepares so lovingly, eh? Did she spread her legs for you, then, you son of a b*tch?" snarled Lucien, his temper ripe with the Scotch he had been drinking. He rose unsteadily, his fists bunching, itching to hit his handsome friend, throwing the tumbler to the floor.
Schwartz stopped and stared, a strange expression on his face; then, closing the door softly, he strode to the table. Placing his hands flat on the table, he leaned toward Lucien and spoke in a cold voice.
"Mate, you don't deserve that woman, and that's God's truth."
And then, raising his voice, he shouted,
"For f*ck's sake, Proserpina goddamn worships you. But you take those filthy, well-used whores to bed and leave this poor girl to pine away alone! What did she do to you?"
Green eyes flashing with anger, he went on before Lucien could speak, jabbing his finger furiously at his best friend and mentor,
"The day that girl looks at me differently, I swear, I shall make her mine. And I shall only be happy to give those little angels my name as well. And I'll do a damn better job of being a father and a husband than you, Delano."
Lucien was around the table in a flash, fists ready to punch his friend, but he only landed a blow to Schwartz's jaw when the younger man stopped him, raising his hand in surrender as he shouted,
"Have you ever spent an hour with your children?" he taunted.
And stepping closer, he said in a low voice,
"As for that girl sleeping with anyone but you, she would never dream of it, you b*a*tard. Your past has made you a monster. Open your eyes and look at what you have before it's too late!"
Breathing heavily, he turned and strode to the door.
"I'm leaving," he said, his voice rough with passion.
He shut the door gently as he left.