Page 20 of The Mobster’s Secret

“Coming right up!” Marge replies, turning back to the refrigerator.

I get the impression that these two have known each other for a while. She doesn’t seem the least bit afraid of him, either. In fact, she seems to like him.

“Come with me,” Ivan says, taking my hand. “Let’s eat in the conservatory.”

He leads me out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into a gorgeous room of all glass. It’s filled with greenery—plants and flowers of all types. It smells so fresh and alive. The opposite of what I’d expect in the home of a mob boss.

“You’re not wearing any of your new clothes,” he remarks as we sit at a round white table. Despite the smile on his lips, I see something else in his eyes. Is he offended?

“I like my own clothes.” I shrug. “Sunday breakfast?”

“You’ll like it.”

He’s so sure of himself. More than any man I’ve met in my life. With that lantern jaw and those piercing eyes, he could run for president and win by a landslide.

“You know I have class tomorrow,” I say. “I can’t just stay here.”

Before I can even finish, Ivan’s already shaking his head. “No, you can’t leave the house.”

“Excuse me?” For a second, I’m not sure I heard him right.

“Not until this situation with Vincent is settled,” he continues. “He’s the one who scared your landlord into kicking you out. Until I’m sure you’re safe, I can’t let you leave.”

My jaw drops. I stare at him, this massive man who sits in front of me looking annoyingly sexy, telling me what I can and cannot do. That’s just not the way I live my life. I’ve never lived that way. I’ve been independent and making my own way since I was a teenager. And there’s no way I’m going to give up my environmental science degree now.

“I am going to class tomorrow, Ivan.”

Again, he just shakes his head. “Not until I know you’re going to be safe.”

My heart flutters at his possessiveness. The way he speaks as though he owns me. Like he’s already decided what’s best for me. And that is actually frightening.

Just as I open my mouth to speak, Marge breezes into the room with a tray full of food. It smells absolutely delicious, and she smiles as she starts setting things down in front of me.

“Ice water, orange juice, toast with butter, bacon, and Ivan’s favorite, the peach French toast with vanilla bean ice cream.”

My mouth instantly starts watering as the scents fill my nose. The French toast looks incredible, almost unreal. Like it was painted and then brought to life with magic.

“Ah, Sunday breakfast,” Ivan says, rubbing his hands together.

“Ice cream for breakfast?”

He shrugs, picking up a spoon. “A wise man once said to me, why risk your life to become rich if you don’t enjoy the fruits of your labor?”

I watch the muscles of his jaw work as he spoons a bite of toast and ice cream into his mouth. There’s something so sensual about it, and I’m instantly taken back to that couch up in the VIP lounge, lying on my back while he went down on me.

“Is that what I am, Ivan?” I ask. “A fruit of your labor?”

I’m absolutely scorching. I may be a virgin, but I know my body well enough to recognize the desire to be filled by this man—to be taken rough and passionately, forced to obey his every whim and desire.

“Of course not.” He smiles. He knows I’m teasing him. “But I will have your cherry soon, princess.”

His words zap through me like an electric spark. I nearly jump out of my seat.

Boy, am I in trouble.

Part of me wants to just tell him to take his breakfast and shove it, but Marge spent time making it, and I don’t want to offend her—or waste food—so I try the peach French toast with just a little bit of ice cream. And gosh, am I glad I did.

“This is good,” I say softly.