Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(50)

But I can't shake this feeling like something is going to happen. Something has to happen. This can't be the end of it.

As the sun starts going down I notice that Alek and Roman keep passing this look between each other, glancing at me. I'm just in the kitchen on a high stool, breathing deeply over a cup of peppermint tea. I don't feel nauseous, exactly, but I do feel like I can just go ahead and throw up. Maybe never stop. This tea is nice. Solid. Something to hold onto. Something I can throw if I need to.

Finally Alek stops bouncing around the living room and comes into the kitchen and looks at me. He cocks his head to one side and crosses his arms.

After a few minutes of him I finally look up. “What is it.”

“Oh, nothing!”

He takes a half step forward and I reflexively push myself back in my chair. Every time he is near me, for some reason I just sort of stand there. I don't know why. I should run. I should push him away, but somehow that's not what my body does. I just kind of hang out like I'm expecting to be petted or something. Maybe it's a symptom of early onset dementia. That’s the only explanation I can think of.

“Seriously, Alek. What is it?”

He shrugs. “Are you getting hungry?”

I shake my head. It suddenly occurs to me that starving myself might be the only dignified way out of this situation.

He just keeps staring at me, so I stare right back. His eyebrows go up.

Oh my God. He cannot be serious.

“Are you waiting for me to cook for you or something?”

He frowns and rocks his head back and forth, rolling him his eyes in that unmistakable gesture of Hell yes I was expecting you to cook for me.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Why would I joke about that?”

“No, seriously. Do you actually think I’m going to be cooking for you?”

“Of course you’re going to be cooking for us,” he scoffs. “I'm certainly not going to be doing it. You're the wife. You cook.”

My mouth falls open. I stare at him for a long time but pretty soon I notice he seems to be enjoying it. The more pissed off I get, the more happy Alek is.

Oh my God. My life. What a joke.

I take a deep breath and hold it for a few seconds, trying to find the courage to do something, anything with a little dignity. Do I have any of that left? At this point, I am not so sure.

Pushing myself back from the counter, I point out the door. Alek glances over his shoulder like he expects to see somebody behind him.

“What?"

“Out.”

“So you’re gonna do it then?” he says with raised eyebrows.

“Just get out. Find somewhere else to be. I'm… ugh. I’m bringing your dinner.”

He does a little fist pump over his head and swings out the doorway.

Seriously, a fist pump. Note to self, buy a softball bat next time I'm out.

Heart thumping like I'm being chased, I just gather a few things together. Every pot that I bang on the stove crashes with a satisfying noise. I fill up a giant pot with water and dump way too much salt in there, then hold the skillet with both hands and slam it on the cooktop three or four times, bang bang bang! There, I feel little better.

After a while, the water is boiling and I have a bubbling sauce of olives and tomatoes and garlic. I let the oven go too high so the bread will be burnt on the edges.

When the spaghetti is done, I dump it over the colander in the sink, letting a few fat noodles spill over the side that I just tuck back into the bulk. There. Somebody's noodles just touched the bottom of the sink. That'll teach him to invade a girl's house without any warning and then demand that she cook them dinner. Who does that?

I pull the bread out of the oven and it’s really further past the dark brown that I wanted. I mean I can't just serve them charcoal. So I take a steak knife and scrape vigorously at the edges, knocking off the worst black bits.

Tucking a bottle of olive oil under my arm I drop hunks of bread on each of the three plates and carry them all into the dining room. Alek and Roman both look up at me with raised eyebrows and expressions of actual shock on their faces as I lay the plates in front of them, steaming and fragrant.

“Wow, Marie. This is way better than I was expecting.”

“Just eat it,” I growl as I drop into a chair.

Pausing for just a second, I watch them tentatively pick up their forks and then dig in. They eat with gusto, rolling fat strands of pasta under their forks and tucking them neatly into their mouths. I can hear the sounds of appreciation and I have to admit, it feels good. I guess there is a little Italian grandma living deep inside me who's just happy to see her men eating well.

Oh no. I have got to stop that right now. No little Italian grandma. No way.

“This is good. Isn't this good, Roman?” Alek says, pointing at Roman with his fork.