I Saved the Mafia Boss—Now I'm His Obsession. novel Chapter 52

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

I picked the pink dress, the soft one that brushed just above my knees and made me feel a little bit like a flower. Not the red rose kind of flower, but a daisy, maybe. Something simple and happy.

I laid it on my bed while I ran through my curly hair routine, taking my time with each step the way Mama taught me. Conditioner, leave-in cream, the diffuser on low heat, I wanted every curl to sit just right, soft and bouncy like they were meant to.

I hummed to myself while I worked. My stomach fluttered the entire time like a hundred butterflies were trapped in there, wings brushing my ribs. I kept telling myself to calm down, that it was just a date. But... it wasn’t just date, not really, not with Adriano.

I could still feel him, his mouth, his tongue in places no one had ever touched me like that before. I mean, I knew what oral sex was but knowing and feeling it are two very, very different things.

Carlos never wanted to. He said it was gross, and honestly, I never insisted. I didn’t exactly enjoy the idea of going down on him either, so we just... skipped that part. It wasn’t a conversation we had. It just wasn’t part of our relationship.

Adriano didn’t just do it. He devoured me like it was his favorite thing in the world... like I was made for that. For him. It didn’t feel selfish or mechanical. It felt like he wanted to, like it brought him pleasure to bring me pleasure. And all the things he said while he was doing it? I’d never heard anyone say such filthy but beautiful things about my body.

I didn’t even know men could talk like that about... well, that. About down there. I had no idea our, um, vaginas could be something to admire, to be praised like that. No one had ever made me feel so beautiful in such a private, vulnerable place.

I pressed my hands to my cheeks, trying to cool down. My body still tingled when I thought about it, still ached in the sweetest way.

But then my brain did what it always does... it spiraled.

Adriano would probably expect me to return the favor. Right? And not that I minded... I mean, not in theory. I just… never really tried. Not properly. I had tried once, with Carlos. It was a disaster. I had food poisoning that week and I got queasy halfway through and—ugh—I ended up puking on him. Right on him.

I cringed so hard at the memory, burying my face in my hands. My God.

What if I mess it up again? What if I panic or gag or worse, what if he gets grossed out and never touches me again?

Adriano wasn’t like Carlos. He was... confident, intense, impossibly good at everything he did. And I didn’t want to disappoint him. Or embarrass myself. I wanted to be... enough. For him. I wanted him to look at me the way he had earlier, like I was something precious.

But still, I really, really didn’t want to puke on him.

I stood in front of the mirror and dabbed on a little makeup, just enough to hide the tired shadows under my eyes and make my cheeks look a little rosier. A touch of lip gloss, some mascara.

Then I slipped into the dress, smoothing it over my hips, and turned a little from side to side. My heart thudded harder when I thought of what Adriano would say when he saw me. Would he like it? Would he think I looked too young? Too... soft? Or maybe, too immature for him? He always dressed so immaculately.

I chewed my lip and tried not to overthink. I gave Flan a nervous smile as he blinked at me from the windowsill.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whispered to him, “But I think I want to do it anyway.”

And then I sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded in my lap, butterflies going wild, waiting for the knock at the door.

And just then a knock echoed in the apartment.

I got startled, my heart practically leaped into my throat. Flan meowed, and I gave him a frantic look. “That’s him,” I whispered, “Oh my God, that’s him.”

I stood, smoothed down the front of my dress, and forced myself to walk calmly to the door even though my knees felt like gelatin. The butterflies were now full-on kamikaze diving in my stomach. I opened the door and there he was.

Adriano.

He had shoved one hand in his pocket, while the other held his phone pressed to his ear. A slate-gray dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins and tattoos on his forearms. No tie. Black slacks that fit a little too well. His jacket was folded over one arm and just the faintest hint of scruff like he’d let it grow just to drive women mad and it was working.

“Yes,” he said into the phone, “I don’t care if he’s in the hospital. Do it.”

I blinked.

Wait what?

Why wouldn't he care if anyone was in the hospital?

He smiled at me the second our eyes met. Still on the phone, he tilted his head slightly, slowly letting his gaze drag down my body. His eyes took their time, from my curls, my face, neck, then down my body.

“No, no. No names,” he said into the phone, “I don’t want it traced. Handle it like the Boston thing.”

I gave him a shy smile, assuming this was some kind of work-related... construction job? Plumbing, maybe? Was “the Boston thing” code for some big renovation?

Adriano’s eyes sparkled, he slid the phone lower, away from his mouth.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured.

Then, still somehow carrying the phone conversation on the other end he reached out and grabbed my hand, gently pulling me forward in the hallway. I squeaked and nearly tripped, but he caught me easily.

With gentle motion, he twirled me.

Literally twirled me.

My curls spun out around my face as I did a full turn, dress flaring, cheeks blazing with heat. I laughed and he watched me like he wanted to memorize every inch.

“Yes,” he said into the phone again, not even looking away, “Put it in the trunk. I’ll deal with it after dinner.”

Trunk? I blinked. Maybe he was moving furniture.

He finally ended the call, tucking the phone away and stepping closer. His hand came up to brush my curls back from my face, then lingered at the side of my neck.

"How I ended up with you, I’ll never understand..." he said, half to himself, eyes tracing over my face like he still couldn’t believe I was real.

I laughed softly, shy under the weight of his intense gaze. “I’m not this grand prize you think I am. You really need to stop saying all those sweet things. I might get used to it.”

He pulled me a little closer, hand still wrapped around mine like he had no intention of letting go.

“And what if you did?” he murmured, “Would that be such a terrible thing?”

I felt my heart skip, actually skip, like it couldn’t keep up with how close he was or how he looked at me.

“I mean...” I fumbled, my cheeks warm, “Maybe a little terrible. You know, I might start expecting daily flower deliveries or poetry written in my honor or... I don’t know, someone making me pancakes shaped like hearts.”

His mouth twitched, dark amusement flashing in his eyes, “You want flowers?” he asked, leaning in, “I'll give you flowers every single day for the rest of your life.”

The way he said it made me stop breathing for a second because he said it like he'd hand me the world if I asked.

I looked up at him, a little stunned. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not,” he said.

“I’m very easy to spoil,” I whispered, smiling nervously.

He smiled, eyes dragging down and up again, “Good. I’m very good at spoiling.”

He didn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he tugged it up, pressed his lips against my knuckles, so gentle it made my heart swell.

“Come on,” he murmured, “I made a reservation.”

The leather seat felt buttery soft beneath my bare thighs. Adriano had his arm wrapped around my shoulders in the backseat, my body tucked into his side. His scent wrapped around me.

I tilted my face up to look at him. “This is really nice,” I whispered.

He glanced down, but before he could say a word, his phone buzzed.

He sighed. The sound came from deep in his chest. His arm tightened slightly around me as he pulled the phone out of his pocket with his free hand.

“Parla,” he said, his Italian thick and biting. (Speak.)

I leaned my head against his shoulder, as he talked.

“Lui è dove?” Adriano asked, (He’s where?)

A pause.

“Fammi indovinare—sotto protezione.” (Let me guess—under protection.)

Another pause, and then he let out a laugh. I didn’t understand the words, but the tone made my skin prickle.

He looked out the window, eyes narrowed, “Mandate Silvio. Nessun proiettile questa volta. Taci e usate le mani.” (Send Silvio. No bullets this time. Quiet and use your hands.)

My fingers fiddled nervously with the hem of my dress.

“Is everything okay?” I asked softly.

His arm pulled me in closer without looking at me, lips brushing the top of my head. “Just business, sweetheart. Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about.”

Then he turned back to his call, “Fate sparire il corpo.” (Make the body disappear.)

I couldn’t stop looking at him.

Even while he spoke into the phone in that low voice. I kept studying his face and something tugged at my focus. And then I saw it. Three faint, curved lines on his cheek.

Scratches.

My heart gave a quiet lurch. They looked like nail marks. A woman’s nails.

I blinked, trying to breathe normally, but something cold crept into my chest. I knew what nail scratches looked like. I remembered finding them on Carlos’s back... bright red crescents I hadn’t put there. I remembered how I’d stood frozen in that moment, trying to believe any excuse except the truth.

Now, staring at Adriano’s cheek, that same drowning feeling returned. The drop in my stomach, the tightness in my throat.

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