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Maid For The Italian Mafia
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Times are tough and the only job this unskilled, curvy young woman can find is as a maid at the home of Matteo Milano, an Italian Mafia boss.
I keep my head down and mind my own business, not asking questions, but this shy quirky girl who prefers books to boys, quickly starts to question the desires she has for this tall, dark and dangerous older man who lives in the shadows.
When I walk in on him touching himself and moaning my name, I think I’m in danger of losing my job, the only way I have to pay my bills and stay off the street.
But he tells me the only thing I’m in danger of is him, with his uncontrollable desire for my curves, my sincerity and the shyness that expresses it, and my innocence that he’d give anything to have.
I’m scared to put myself out there for a guy, especially after what happened last time. No way I can risk something like that again, especially when I’m not even sure I can trust the sincerity of Matteo’s intentions.
But he says his only intention is to be my first and only, and make me his, always. And he won’t stop until there’s a ring on my finger and a baby in my belly…and there’s no way he’s letting me go without making me his…forever.
*Maid For The Italian Mafia is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.
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My hand clenches the cleaning rag, balling it up in my hand the second Matteo Milano steps into the living room. I try and keep my eyes down, making sure not to make direct eye contact as I was warned.
As my fist slides forward my knuckles drag over the top of the oak table I’m polishing, a stark contrast from the last pass of my rag when my hand was relaxed, my palm flat.
My forearm tenses and then begins to shake. I take a deep breath in, trying my best not to be obvious and then slowly releasing it. Everything I try and do to remain calm is failing me right now, but in reality what in the world could work.
Matteo stands six foot five and is packed with muscles. As he buttons the last button on his white shirt, the Roman numerals XXVI on his right pec muscle disappear from sight. But when he rolls up his sleeves there’s more ink carefully aligned on his forearm. It appears to be some kind of saying, or slogan or something…not that I’ll ever get close enough to read it myself. Heck, from the distance he keeps from everyone I haven’t even been able to tell what language it’s in.
My back shoots straight and I pull my shoulders back as the sound of his wooden soled Gucci oxford lace-ups glide across the marble floor of his estate. He glides more than he walks, and covers more ground with one step than anyone I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a retired professional athlete the way his movements are so precise, like I’m watching an anatomy and human movement documentary at the same time. And from the looks of those muscles that are attached to the sides of his neck, the way his thick chest projects up and out, and the power in those thick thighs and hips propel him forward, there’s no reason for me to believe he couldn’t fill in as a linebacker for any NFL team he chose on any given Sunday.
But his life isn’t about sports. I’ve never even seen him glance at a TV, aside from the security cameras in his office which I was allowed to enter only once, and that was briefly. Matteo is all about business, and not the kind you find in Forbes magazine…at least not the kind that could be publicly traded or you could brag about at cocktail parties…not that I could ever picture him at a cocktail party making small talk.
No, Matteo’s business is the kind that no one talks about but everyone knows. As Little Italy’s most feared Italian-American, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know what Matteo does isn’t exactly above-board.
As he moves closer to me I try and focus on cleaning, but my eyes move upward, trying to take in the sight of him as long as I can…just making sure to avoid eye contact. I tuck my chin and try and make it look like I’m focused on the table in front of me, but he has this magnetic pull on me…and not just my eyes.
I swear I feel the floor shake ever so slightly as he moves closer yet, and I imagine this beast of a man walking right up to me, grabbing me and taking me right here and now on this table that surely cost more than I’ll make this entire year keeping his estate slash mansion slash villa slash whatever you call these gigantic quote unquote homes, that the uber wealthy live in.
Gabriele’s elbow finds my side and I turn my head completely so there’s no doubt I’m not looking at Matteo. As I do I make eye contact with Gabriele, Matteo’s maid who I’m here to help, it’s clear to see her lips are pursed as she looks down her nose at me.
You know what I told you, she mouths, and I shake my head.
No eye contact. Mr. Milano must never be distracted from the constant plotting and scheming that’s going on in his head. I couldn’t even imagine running a multi-billion dollar empire in addition to juggling the idea that your adversaries are literally out to kill you twenty-four hours a day.
At least the district attorney said Matteo’s business is over a billion dollars, although how could anyone actually verify that? I guess this house, which Zillow appraised at seventy-seven million dollars is a pretty good indicator that he’s in, or definitely approaching, ten figure territory…the three comma club.
But like most things Matteo never speaks about his wealth, or anything at all for that matter. He didn’t even speak at my initial interview, just sat in his Italian leather chair in the corner and watched as Gabriele grilled me with question after question, making it clear to me that she had copies of my credit report and other personal data in front of her.