Chapter 6: Brutal Vows: Chapter 6

Mamma and I sit with my archenemy at the kitchen table, watching in silence as he devours his pasta.

I’ve never seen a man eat like this. He fell on his plate and started inhaling the tagliatelle with meat sauce like he’d been adrift at sea in a raft for six months.

I’m equal parts fascinated and disturbed.

“Mmmpf,” he mutters around a mouthful, rolling his eyes heavenward and chewing lustily. “God almighty. Mrs. Caruso, this is the best bloody food I’ve had in my entire life.”

“Looks like the food you’ve had in your entire life. And thank Reyna, she’s the cook.”

He stops eating long enough to glance at me in surprise. “You made the meal?”

As if he wasn’t sitting right in that damn spot watching me the entire time.

“From scratch,” Mamma supplies when I only sit there glaring daggers at him. “The pasta, the Bolognese, the focaccia. And that Caesar dressing on your salad is homemade, too. Reyna does all the cooking for the family. Once my husband died, I hung up my apron for good.”

Quinn grunts.

Somehow, it encapsulates his disbelief that I’m able to put together an edible meal along with an acknowledgment of my father’s passing. Though I shouldn’t be surprised, considering most of his vocabulary is probably composed of such nonverbal expressions.

Barnyard animals aren’t known for their witty discourse.

I take another swig of the pinot from my glass. My plate of food remains untouched. My stomach is unsettled and my armpits are damp, and I can’t wait for him to finish his supper so I can smash his plate with a hammer and dump it into the trash, ensuring no civilized person can ever eat from it again.

That fork he’s using will have to go, too.

There isn’t enough bleach in all the world to clean his germs off it.

Tearing into a piece of focaccia bread with his teeth, Quinn says, “Does Lili cook?”

Mamma glances at me, waiting to hear how I’ll handle the question.

I go with a neutral-sounding “Yes.”

“This well?”

I hesitate, not wanting to admit that Lili has been banned from the kitchen for starting not one but fires, one in the microwave and one on the stove.

“She’s learning. I’m sure in time she’ll master it. If you recall, she’s only a teenager.”

I say the last part acidly. I’m gratified to see it gives Quinn pause.

He looks at me steadily for a moment, a lump of bread bulging in his cheek, then chews and swallows, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

He sits back in his chair, takes a swallow of wine, then says somberly, “Aye.”

Then he exhales heavily, as if he’s troubled by her age.

Mamma shoots me another wordless glance, her eyebrows raised.

Before I can pounce on the opportunity to shame him for wanting to marry a child, he says to me suddenly, “How old are you?”

Mamma cackles. “Ah, , you have a death wish, ?”

Setting my wineglass down carefully on the table—so I don’t break it—I hold his penetrating gaze and say, “What charming manners you have, Mr. Quinn.”

“Nearly as charming as yours, Ms. Caruso.”

“I’m not the one asking impolite questions.”

“Why is it impolite to want to know my future aunt’s age?”

“Aunt-in-law,” I correct, wanting to wash my mouth out with soap just hearing it. “And it’s impolite to ask a woman’s age.”

“As impolite as it is to shower a new relative with such…” He regards my withering gaze and my stiff posture. “Warmth and hospitality?”

Mamma says, “Don’t take it personally, Homer. She doesn’t like anyone.”

“I like some people just fine!”

She looks at me. “

. Name two.”

The Irishman grins, leaning over his plate and setting his elbows on the table. He props his chin in his hands and says, “Thirty-eight.”

My inhaled breath is sharp and loud. “I am thirty-eight years old.”

He pauses to take a leisurely, half-lidded inventory of my face and chest. “Thirty-six?”

I say flatly, “That butter knife can also be used as a carving tool.”

“Five? Four?”

“I think it’s time we called it an evening, Mr. Quinn.” I shove my chair out from under me and stand.

He lounges back in his chair and smiles, folding his hands over his stomach and stretching out his legs, the very picture of the lord of the manor at ease.

“But we haven’t had dessert yet.”

Mamma—the traitor—seems to find the entire exchange highly amusing. In fact, she seems to find Mr. Quinn himself highly amusing, something that outrages me.

She’s the one who said the Irish are despicable!

I grit out, “We don’t have any dessert.”

“Except for that panna cotta you made this morning,” says Mamma. “There’s some tiramisu left, too.”

Quinn’s smile blossoms into a huge grin. He flashes all those nice white teeth at me, not knowing or caring that he’s in mortal danger.

I glare at my mother. “How of you to remember, Mamma. Isn’t it time for you to go to bed?”

She looks out the kitchen window, then back at me. As it’s only six thirty and the middle of August, it’s still light outside. But since she’s chosen the wrong side of this fight, she needs to leave.

She stands. Quinn stands, too.

“It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Caruso,” he says.

His smile appears to be genuine. Not the shit-eating, fuck-you smile he’s always gifting me.

Mamma says, “Nice meeting you, too, .

Good luck.”

She hobbles out of the kitchen, chuckling to herself.

Smug, Quinn looks at me. “Took to me like a duck to water, don’t you think?”

I say flatly, “It’s the dementia.”

“No, lass, your mother’s as sharp as a tack.”

“Which is why she kept calling you a goofy rooster.”

“Admit it. She likes me.”

“She likes maggot cheese, too.”

He grimaces. “What the bloody hell is maggot cheese?”

“Look in the mirror and find out.”

He gives me a sour look, then takes his seat again and glances pointedly at the refrigerator.

“Mr. Quinn, I’m not serving you dessert. Please, go now.”

“Why would I want to leave when we’re having so much fun?”

“You’re as much fun as gangrene.”

“Ouch.”

He pretends to be serious, but I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

I grab my plate of uneaten pasta, stride over to the sink, and dump it down the drain. I run the water and the garbage disposal at full blast, hoping the racket will deafen him.

He leans over the table, picks up my empty glass, and refills it with pinot. Over the din of the garbage disposal, he shouts, “I’ll try the panna cotta the tiramisu. And I love mango ice cream, if you’ve got it.” He smirks. “If not, I’m sure you could whip up a batch, since you’re such a walloping good cook.”

I turn off the water and the disposal, grip the edge of the sink, close my eyes, and take a deep breath, praying for strength and for the ceiling to give way and collapse onto his head.

When I open my eyes, Quinn is staring at me with such burning heat, my heart flip-flops.

“Are you afraid to be alone with me, lass?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You sure? You look a bit flustered.”

“This is how I always look before I throw up.”

He pulls his lips between his teeth. His eyes sparkle, and his chest starts to shake.

He’s laughing at me again.

What a big fucking surprise.

“Mr. Quinn—”

“Spider.”

I glare at him, heat burning my cheeks and my heart pounding. “I will never call you that stupid nickname. Now please.

.”

He tilts his head and examines my expression. His eyes are still hot, but there’s something soft in them, too. Something…unexpected.

He points at my empty chair and orders, “Sit.”

My back stiff, I answer through clenched teeth. “I don’t respond to commands. I’m not a dog.”

“God knows you’re not,” he says hotly. “Now get your fine arse in that chair, woman. Don’t make me tell you a third time.”

That sounded distinctly like a threat. I snap, “Or what?”

He growls, “Or I’ll take you over my knee and teach you some bloody manners.”

My heart takes off into a thundering gallop. My hands start to shake. My breath is shallow, and there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears.

I can’t remember the last time I was this furious.

Oh, wait. Yes, I can.

The last time he was in my house.

I glance longingly at the wooden block of sharpened kitchen knives on the counter.

Quinn says softly, “Reyna.”

I look at him. Big, masculine, and handsome, taking up all the space in the room. His gaze like a forest fire and the faintest hint of a smile hovering on his full, sculpted lips.

Suddenly, I can’t wait to get out of here.

But I already know enough about the Irishman to realize that the only way that will happen is if I give him what he wants first.

So I sit.

I grab my glass of wine and guzzle it.

Then I look at him in nervy silence, waiting.

He sits there and smolders back at me, a whirlwind of unspoken questions in his eyes.

I’m about to jump back up and run out of the room when he says abruptly, “Why do you live with your brother and niece?”

“Why do you have a spiderweb tattoo on your neck?”

It’s out before I can stop it. I had no idea I was curious about that stupid tattoo until just now.

He sets his forearms on the table and leans closer. “I’m the one asking the questions.”

“I know you think you’re in charge of everyone in the universe, Mr. Quinn, but you’re deluded.”

“I’m not in charge of everyone in the universe. Only everyone in this house.”

God, how I hate him for that. How I hate his dominating confidence and his pathological maleness, his assumption that he—and only he—is the one in control.

I hate it more than anything that he’s right.

Because in our world, men are in charge.

And alpha males like him are the very top of the food chain.

“I won’t hurt her,” he says suddenly, startling me.

“What?”

“I said I won’t hurt her. I know you’re worried about that, but I’ve never laid a hand on a woman in my life.” He laughs softly. “Well, not in anger.”

I look away, unnerved that he can read my mind so easily, and also by the vivid image my mind unhelpfully provided me of him on top of a naked woman, thrusting between her spread thighs as she arches and cries out in ecstasy.

My face flushes hot again. It seems to be happening with concerning frequency.

“Let’s try again. Why do you live with your brother and your niece?”

I flatten my hands on the tabletop and stare down at them as I gather the necessary mental armor to answer.

“When my husband died, I…” I stop to clear my throat. “I’d never lived alone before. I went straight from my father’s house to Enzo’s. After the funeral, I went home to that big, empty house, and I couldn’t stand it. The awful silence.”

“So I packed a bag and came here. I’ve been here since. I’ll get a place of my own eventually. I just…haven’t yet.”

“How long have you been a widow?”

“Three years.”

I notice my hands shaking, so I pour myself the last of the wine from the bottle and gulp it down. Quinn watches me silently, his gaze intense.

“How long were you married?”

“Too fucking long.”

“And how long is that?”

I draw a steadying breath and glance at the ink on my ring finger. It’s black and comforting, a visual reminder of the promise I made to myself that no man would ever own me again.

“Fourteen years.”

“That’s a long time.”

Aloud, I say, “It felt longer.”

Neither of us speaks after that for a while. Then he says, “Tell me about the rest of the family.”

“Like what?”

“Like how many of you are there?”

“It’s just me, Mamma, Lili, and Gianni.”

“No grandparents?”

“All dead.”

“Cousins?”

“There’s no one. Just us.”

“I thought all Italian families were big.”

“I thought all Irishmen were drunks.”

He chuckles. “You have a smart comeback for everything, don’t you?”

“It’s easy to win a war of words when your opponent is a donkey.”

Surprised by how viciously that came out, I look up at Quinn. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

But he doesn’t seem offended at all. He’s chuckling again, shaking his head.

“Why are you laughing?”

“I’ve been called a lot of things, but a donkey’s a first.”

I’m taken aback by his reaction. If Enzo were sitting in his place, my jaw would already be broken.

“Well…it’s not that it’s untrue. I just shouldn’t have said it.”

He laughs harder.

Despite my utter hatred for him, I smile.

My smile fades when he rises from his chair, crosses to the wine fridge, and removes another bottle.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Like you’re going to open another bottle of wine.”

“Aye. And here I thought you were nothing but a pretty face and a forked tongue. You can actually make correct assumptions, too.”

Something about the familiar way he’s teasing me, the way he’s smiling at me from under his lashes and especially the thing about my pretty face, sets my teeth on edge all over again.

“How about my assumption that you’re going to make my niece’s life hell? Is that correct?”

He pauses before saying softly, “Not every marriage is awful, lass.”

I scoff. “Really? What fairy tales have you been reading?”

He grabs the corkscrew from the counter, peels off the top of the label from the bottle, and opens it with swift efficiency. Then he crosses to the table and refills my glass.

Standing over me, he’s all heat and muscle, a powerfully potent male presence in a black Armani suit.

“Don’t know how many times I’ll have to repeat this, but I’m not your dead husband.”

I glance up at him. His expression is serious. His hazel eyes are soft and warm.

My mouth goes dry. My mind goes blank. I can’t think of a single thing to say to him.

He picks up the wine and hands it to me. “Here. Drink this. It’ll give you something to do with your mouth other than spit venom at me.”

He glances at my mouth and licks his lips.

This is when I realize I’m at eye level with his crotch.

And that enormous bulge straining the seam of his trousers.

Breaking out in a sweat, I grab the wine from him and drink the entire glass in one go.

He drawls, “Do I make you nervous, wee viper?”

I cough violently, my eyes watering. “You make me wish for a stroke.”

“Why do you dislike me so much?”

“Because you have the personality of a festering wound.”

His lashes lower. He considers me in blistering silence for a moment, then leans down and murmurs into my ear, “Liar.”

He inhales deeply against my neck, raising goose bumps all along my arms.

I stiffen. He exhales, making a low sound of pleasure deep in his throat.

Then he straightens and stares down at me.

“Tell Lili I’ll be back tomorrow at five o’clock. Or would you like me to go up to her bedroom and tell her myself?”

Startled, I glance up at him to find his smirk back in place and his hazel eyes mocking.

Without another word, he turns on his heel and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me sitting alone at the table with my heartbeat throbbing and a million questions swimming in my head.

The most important one being that if he knew Lili was in the house all along, why did he stay and eat supper with me?

“Oh my God,” I say aloud, horrified. “Does that son of a bitch think he’s getting a two-for-one special?”