The Mafia Boss Grinned When She Cursed Him in Sicilian and Then Told Her to Say It Again to His Face

Gabriel didn't take her to a dingy mob hideout or a sterile hotel room.

He drove her twenty miles north of the city, up into the rolling, wooded hills of Baltimore County, through a massive wrought-iron gate that opened automatically at his approach. The driveway wound through a dense canopy of pine trees before opening up to a sprawling, dark-stone estate overlooking a quiet, misty lake.

"Where are we?" Frankie asked, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as Gabriel parked the sedan in front of the grand stone entrance.

"My home," Gabriel said simply, turning off the engine.

The house inside was warm, quiet, and filled with the rich scent of old wood, beeswax, and fresh espresso. There were no armed guards patrolling the hallways, though Frankie noticed subtle security cameras discreetly mounted near the high timber ceilings.

Gabriel led her into a massive, warm kitchen featuring commercial stainless-steel appliances, dark granite countertops, and a large wood-burning fireplace in the corner.

"Sit," Gabriel said, pointing to a high leather stool by the island.

Frankie sat down, her body suddenly realizing just how exhausted she truly was. Every muscle in her back throbbed with a dull, aching heat.

Gabriel took off his leather coat, tossed it over a chair, and rolled up his sweater sleeves, exposing thick, tanned forearms covered in dark hair and a faint, thin scar running across his wrist. He walked over to the stove, filled a small copper moka pot with dark Italian coffee grounds, and turned on the gas burner.

Frankie watched him in stunned silence. "The grand mob boss of Baltimore makes his own coffee?"

"My grandmother would rise from her grave and beat me with a wooden spoon if I let a machine brew my espresso," Gabriel said dryly, turning around to lean against the counter, crossing his arms.

Frankie couldn't help the small, tired smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. "She sounds like my nonna."

"She probably was," Gabriel said, his dark eyes softening as he looked at her. "Sicilian women are built out of volcanic rock and spite. It's why they live to be a hundred and four."

"Hey," Frankie said, pointing a finger at him. "Watch it."

Gabriel chuckled softly, walking over to a wooden cabinet. He pulled out a loaf of crusty Italian bread, a block of sharp provolone, and a tray of prosciutto, deftly slicing them with a heavy chef's knife. He set the plate down in front of her, along with two small porcelain cups of steaming, thick espresso.

"Eat," he commanded gently.

Frankie realized she hadn't eaten since a stale blueberry muffin at five o'clock that morning. She didn't hesitate; she picked up a slice of bread and prosciutto and took a large bite. The flavors were incredible, rich and salty, dissolving the bitter taste of grease and panic that had been in her mouth all night.

Gabriel sat down on the stool next to her, sipping his dark espresso, watching her eat with quiet satisfaction.

"Why are you doing this, Gabriel?" Frankie asked after finishing her second piece of bread. She turned on her stool to face him directly, her dark brown eyes earnest and demanding. "Don't give me the logistics speech again. You're bringing me to your private house. You're feeding me. Why?"

Gabriel set his tiny cup down on the granite counter with a quiet click. He looked at her for a long, silent moment, his gray eyes darkening with a deep, smoldering heat that made Frankie’s pulse jump into her throat.

"When I was twenty-two years old, my father was murdered by his own business partner," Gabriel said, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur. "I spent fifteen years tearing down everyone who took part in that betrayal. I built Costa Vanguard out of blood, fear, and absolute control. In my world, everyone wants something from me. My men fear me, my enemies hate me, and the politicians I pay off smile while looking for a knife to put in my back."

He reached out, his long fingers gently cupping the back of Frankie's neck, his warm thumb resting right beneath her ear. Frankie shivered, but she didn't pull away.

"And then," Gabriel continued softly, his thumb tracing the soft skin of her jaw line, "a fiery mechanic with oil on her neck walks into my office, calls me a dead octopus to my face in my grandmother's dialect, and offers to fight me for a rusty auto garage."

"I was angry," Frankie whispered, her breath hitching as his fingers slowly tangled into the loose dark hairs at the nape of her neck.

"You were alive," Gabriel corrected softly, leaning closer until she could feel the warm heat of his breath against her skin. "You don't want my money, Francesca. You don't want my power. You just want to protect what's yours. I haven't seen anything that real in twenty years."

Frankie stared at his lips, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew she should step back. She knew getting involved with Gabriel Costa was like jumping into a roaring furnace. But as his gray eyes searched hers, filled with raw, dark desire and a fierce, protective warmth, Frankie realized she didn't want to step back at all.