Claimed By The Mafia Don (Ariella and Asher) novel Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Asher practically told me to make lasagna. Lasagna! Do you know how long that takes? I know it’s his favourite food but still…..it was the middle of the night!

First, there was the soffrito, all those tiny diced vegetables. Then, the Bolognese. Hours of simmering ground meat, red wine, and tomatoes. While that was happening, I had to make the béchamel, whisking milk and butter until my arm ached.

Finally, the layering. Pasta, meat sauce, ricotta, mozzarella, béchamel, over and over again r. Then, into the oven for nearly an hour, until it was bubbling and golden.

I swear it took me a good three hours, maybe more. Hours of cooking, as I was pulled from my sleep! But, I have to admit, the smell was enough to make my mouth water.

While the lasagna was in the oven, I took the time to blend him fresh juice. I know how he loved drinking fresh juice, especially apple juice. So I took some crisp, red apples and I made him apple juice. I took the dish out, the bubbling cheese still sizzling, placed it on the tray, and then started making my way upstairs.

I opened the door only to find that Asher was in bed, and he was fast asleep. The surprise washed over me. I tiptoed inside so as not to wake him, and put the food on the bedside table, and then I stood there looking at him.

I knew this was the only time I would get to look at him while he was not staring at me, his gaze piercing, he was not throwing insults at me, his words sharp and cruel, he was not trying to hurt me, the threat always present. This was the only time his face was not full of anger and coldness, a mask of hardened resentment, and the promise of hurt towards me.

He’s just sleeping there peacefully, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths, and looking at him like this, even though he’s grown much older now, more sculpted, more manly, stronger, the lines of his face etched with time and hardship, the years giving him a rough age, but I can still see the boy, the young man that I had fallen in love with.

I can still see my Asher inside this man sleeping here on the bed, a ghost of the past. I look at his eyelashes, long and dark, his mouth, set in a firm line, his nose, strong and straight, his eyes, hidden beneath closed lids, the way he’s still sleeping, it seems like he’s in a frown, a furrowed brow, like he has slept with the whole world on top of him, a burden carried heavily, and I wish that I could hold him.

A desperate, unspoken longing, I wish that I could help him, take some of that pain away, to ease the weight that seemed to crush him.

After standing there for what felt like hours, or just a minute, time suspended, because I was enjoying myself too much, looking at him, reminding myself of us, younger, full of love and nurture, having promises whispered between us, thinking we were going to get married, picturing a future filled with shared dreams, thinking we were going to be a family one day, a vision that now seemed like a cruel mirage.

I find myself inching closer to him, drawn by a magnetic pull. It seems like he’s pulling me towards him. I walk, my steps hesitant. There are a few strands of air that have fallen across his face, a dark curtain against his skin, and I go to softly put them back, a gentle gesture, wanting to touch him and feel him beneath my fingers.

My hand goes towards his face, trembling slightly, and just as I’m about to meet his skin, to feel the warmth of his cheek, suddenly his hand comes from nowhere, a lightning-fast movement, clamping my hand, the sudden pressure startling me that I actually scream from the shock, a sharp, involuntary cry. Then his hand clamps on

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Chapter 27

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top of me, a vice-like grip, as he starts pinching me, the pain a searing jolt.

His hold on me gets stronger, tightening with each passing second. It’s almost like he wants to hurt me, to inflict pain, and so immediately I try to save myself, to pull away, because it actually really fucking hurts. He’s a big man, his strength formidable, he’s strong, a wall of muscle and bone, and my hand is small and fragile.

Yes, I am weak, vulnerable against him.

“Asher, let me go, you’re hurting me, you’re hurting me…Asher, let me go,” I plead, my voice a desperate whisper.

He looks at me, his eyes snapping open, and this is the time that I actually look at him, truly see him. His face is filled with disgust and repulsiveness, as he asks me, pulling me close to him, his grip unrelenting. He’s still sleeping on the bed, half-propped up, while I’m standing, trapped. He pulls me closer to the bed, and he asks me, his voice a low growl,

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