I Saved the Mafia Boss—Now I'm His Obsession. novel Chapter 9

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

The look on her face made me believe that I wasn’t someone who could break necks with my bare hands.

She seems so... off her guard.

She simply folded herself into that little armchair across from me, cross-legged like we were about to gossip over coffee. There was no fear, not even a flicker of it.

Either she was the dumbest person I’d ever met... or I don't know... something else.

I watched her move, soft limbs, oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, as she glanced up at me with that open, too-honest face and said, “Capone? Like the Al Capone?”

I didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her, my fingers loosely locked, elbows on my knees. That voice of hers, it was sweet.

“Your name is kinda badass,” she went on, totally unbothered by the fact that I hadn’t blinked in about a minute, “Do people always ask you that? Sorry if that’s annoying, I just... you don’t meet many Capones walking around, you know?”

She had no fucking idea.

My mouth twitched, like my body wasn’t sure what to do with the fact that she wasn’t terrified. Most people hear my last name and decide not to make eye contact again, let alone park themselves six feet in front of me like I’m some rescue dog that needs chatting with.

“Yeah,” I said, “I get that a lot.”

Her face lit up like Christmas. Christ.

She smiled like I’d handed her a compliment instead of just confirming I had the same last name as one of the most infamous criminals in American history.

“But like... Capone?” she said again, dragging out the syllables, “You’re not like him at all, are you? Like Al Capone? Chicago? Are you related to him? Guns and speakeasies and blood on the sidewalks?”

Blood on the sidewalks.

Without giving me a chance, she steamrolled into the conversation like she had no idea she was talking to a man who could kill her with a spoon.

"Because if you’re that kind of Capone," she said, her nose wrinkling like the word tasted bad, "we might have a problem. Big problem."

Oh?

She shook her head, righteous as fuck, “I don’t do guns. I don’t do that... mafia, gang, whatever thing. That’s not my scene. That world’s ugly and I hate ugly things. We’ve got enough of that kind of mess down there already.”

Ugly things.

My brow lifted slightly, just to see if she'd notice the warning, she didn’t.

“Where?” I asked.

She blinked like I’d caught her off-guard, then shrugged, “Brazil! I’m from São Paulo.”

Of course she was.

That girl was quite comfortable telling her life story to a complete stranger.

“I moved here when I was fifteen. My parents still live there though. My dad makes the best feijão tropeiro you’ve ever had,” her eyes lit up with the memory, “Well, I mean, I don’t eat it anymore because I’m vegan now. No bacon for me, but it still tastes amazing with plant-based sausage. You’d like it. Maybe. If you eat beans.”

Beans.

Jesus Christ.

My gaze dropped, I couldn’t help it. That oversized shirt she was drowning in hit her thighs just right. And the way she was sitting, legs tucked under her like she belonged in a fucking pet store window? It didn’t help.

Yeah. I eat beans.

Not the kind you’re thinking about, sunshine.

My eyes crawled back up to her face, I let the pause stretch long enough for it to be obvious but she still didn't catch on.

“I eat beans,” I said, deadpan.

She had no idea who she was sitting across from.

But I did.

And fuck me, I wanted to keep hearing her talk about beans.

“Good. Beans are important,” she said it like it was some universal truth, “I mean, protein and fiber, mister, both very necessary when you’re, you know, healing from a near-death experience.”

Mister?

Who the fuck—

She swallowed as her eyes flicked to the mess that was still my chest, stitched up, taped down, bruised like fuck.

“Speaking of...” she hesitated, then braved the question. “Why were those people after you?”

“Money.”

I gave her the safe answer because a sweet little civilian girl could stomach the idea of stealing, and robberies but definitely not murder, not blood soaked into the grout and the reasons people don’t come home.

She breathed out slowly, like she was deflating.

“Thank God,” she whispered.

I watched her carefully.

“After hearing your name, I was a little skeptical you were that kind of Capone,” she added, but then again raised an eyebrow skeptically, “You’re not, right?”

A part of me that liked messing with people wanted to mess with her but I felt it slide. She was entertaining and pretty, I don't hurt pretty girls.

“Relax,” I muttered, watching the way her eyes tracked my every word, “I’m not that Capone.”

Another lie. Another half-truth. Depends which Capone she meant.

“Good,” she blurted, way too fast, like she’d been holding her breath for years and just got permission to inhale again.

She slid her legs off the couch, socked feet hitting the floor with the softest thud. I watched the movement. That oversized shirt she was swimming in hiked up just enough to catch a peek of skin where her thigh met her hip.

Fuck.

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