Chapter 59 RóISE

The interview goes a lot easier than I expect. Mostly because instead of his usual stoic underboss routine, Miceli acts like a human being with feelings.

Which we both know is a lie, but he's a better actor than I gave him credit for. A little too good.

When we sit down, he gently but firmly moves Pusheen to the cushion on my other side. Somehow, I'm sitting in the center of the couch and his big body is taking up the space beside me.

He pets Pusheen and tells her she's a good cat. Who is this man?

Pusheen gives him a regal look, lays her head and forepaws on my lap and promptly falls asleep. She's not at all impressed with the celebrity interviewer.

Miceli rests one long arm negligently along the back of the sofa, surrounding me with his presence and doing a pretty good job of looking like a doting fiancé. His fingers trail over the bare skin of my shoulder, sending a constant stream of sensation along my nerve endings I'm trying hard to ignore.

With spectacular failure.

I should have worn a dress with a high neck and long sleeves. Not that it would have done any good. Having the underboss this close interrupts normal programming in my brain, even when we're not touching.

"Pusheen is our rescue kitten," Miceli says, answering a question.

"That's a pretty big kitten."

I reach down to pet Pusheen and my hand tangles with Miceli's.

He grins. "Róise connected to her immediately, so we knew we were taking her home."

Leaning down, he kisses my temple and I want to clobber him. My heart is having a hard time not believing the man-in-love-with-his-fiancée schtick.

And that makes me cranky.

"You make our relationship sound like the romance of the century," I whisper accusingly when our interviewer consults with one of the producers about moving to another location in the suite for the rest of the interview.

"Would you rather I pretended not to like you?" he teases.

Teases!

I look around to make sure the other people in the suite are still occupied with each other. "Did you get a personality transplant in Boston?"

He laughs, like I'm joking.

The interviewer and the producer choose that moment to return to us.

Miceli gives them both a measured look. "We're fine where we are."

We stay where we are. Of course. And I think maybe an alien didn't take over Miceli's body.

"Thanks for taking the time to meet with me," the interviewer finally says. "This is going to be a great piece. Spring romance. My viewers are going to love it."

I recognize wrap up words when I hear them and I perk up until I remember we still have the photo shoot to get through.

The photographer took several photos during the interview but wants more, and the De Lucas want formal engagement photos to go out with the press release.

The woman who interviewed us got her copy early minus the line about the six children I'm supposedly homeschooling. It's going out to all the other news outlets tomorrow morning.

A billionaire getting married is newsworthy. Even when most of the world doesn't know he's a Cosa Nostra underboss.

The Cosa Nostra are way better at flying under the radar than our mob, but then Shaughnessys have been part of the criminal underworld for generations. The De Lucas have too, but they didn't take over leadership until the 1980s, when the Cosa Nostra went into stealth mode.

Well, as stealthy as any criminal organization that settles their disputes with death and destruction can be.

Huh. Maybe teaching mafia history to Cosa Nostra kids isn't such a far-fetched idea after all. Moma could do it for sure.

"Did I lie?" he asks with a eyebrow raised mockingly.

Thinking back over the questions and our answers, I have to admit none were a lie. Except one. "You said you knew I was the one for you the first time you saw me."

"I did."

"If you'll remember, that was a one-night stand and neither of us planned to see the other again."

"That night, I knew you were the one I wanted in my bed. And after the amazing sex, I wished you could be the one on the other side of the contract."

Can I believe him? But why lie? It doesn't change anything.

Except how I feel. Darn it.

It's way too easy to look at him adoringly while the photographer gets the necessary traditional poses. And when he insists our cat be included because we aren't having kids for a while, that adoration turns a little too real.

"You two ready to have some fun?" she asks.

I shrug, but Miceli says, "Sure."

Who is this man and where is my taciturn and grumpy underboss fiancé?

"I love the 1950s look." She grins at me. "Coupled with Miceli's dark suit, you two look like a couple right out of the 20th century."

I'm not sure what to say to that. "Um, thank you?"

"Pick her up, like you're going to carry her over the threshold."

Miceli doesn't wait to be told twice. He bends and puts one arm under my knees and the other behind my back before lifting.

The photographer puts her camera up to her eye and starts taking pictures. "Okay, now twirl her around. Make those crinolines fly."

He adjust his hold slightly and then starts spinning. And my skirts do fly.

"How are you feeling?" he asks in a whisper, as he spins me around and smiles down at me adoringly.

There should be a warning sign on this man. Because my heart? Is finding it way too easy to believe what it sees. Even if our brain knows he's putting all of this on for the sake of the mafia.

"I'm fine." What else can I say?

The truth? That I missed him like crazy the last four days and being in his arms feels like coming home?

"How's your ass?"

I gasp and stare at him wide-eyed.

"Yes, just like that! You look like he just proposed to you," the photographer crows.

I guess that's better than her knowing he just asked if my butthole is still sore. Or close enough.

"It's fine," I hiss. "I'm fine," I repeat, a whole different meaning in those two words right now.

"That's good to hear," he purrs .

Jayzuz, Mary and Joseph, my ovaries just fainted. "If you were that worried about me, you could've called earlier this week."

"I have been in meetings from 6 AM until midnight every day."

That schedule is bonkers. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

Looking closer than I have since finding him waiting with the helicopter because looking at him makes me want things. Not just sex things either.

Emotions he'll never give me.

Anyway, I see the lines of strain and exhaustion on his face now and my chest aches.

"Is it always like this?" I mean, am I going to be married to a ghost? "Do you work like this all the time?"

"You know there are no set hours for men in my position. But right now, things are particularly volatile and it's my job to either burn down my enemies or throw water on the fires that are burning." "

Like a superhero not averse to killing his enemies. My vajayjay swoons. "I'm sorry. You look tired."

"Good to know."

"You know what I mean."

He doesn't answer because the photographer is telling us it's time to try another pose.

Miceli stops spinning and I realize the photographer is standing on the top rung of the step ladder she used to set up the taller lights and reflectors.

She hops down. "These are going to be great. Now, sit in that armchair with Róise in your lap."

Miceli settles into the chair she indicated with my butt right on his thighs. There's something pressing into me through the layers of my skirt and underskirts that's harder than the bulging muscles of his thighs.

He's turned on. Because he's holding me?

"Let's spread your skirts." The photographer messes with my dress. "That's good, but maybe a little leg showing?"

She artfully pushes the fabric up and tells Miceli to grab and hold it. He does, his fingertips sliding up my naked skin under the cover of my crinoline.

He makes a sound that makes my core pulse with need. "You're wearing thigh highs," he growls low for only me to hear.

"Perfect. Don't move. Don't change a single thing. Especially your expressions." The photographer is back on the stepstool, getting a bird's eye view of us .

Normally I would protest how much of my cleavage will show from that angle, but right now if a single word comes out of my mouth, it isn't going to be about the pictures.

We spend another hour taking photos and by the end, I never want to see the opposite side of a camera lens again. Maybe because I want to see Miceli naked so badly.

Pusheen jumps down from the couch where she's been napping since her part in the photo shoot ends. She saunters over to us and rubs along Miceli's ankles and then mine.

Lulled by her innocent behavior, I notice her bunched back legs too late.

"Watch out," I yell as my cat leaps halfway across the room to land on the back of one of the photographer's assistants.

The man goes crashing down to the ground, expensive equipment landing around him like the debris from a four-car pileup. Pusheen's back end swishes as she walks away, no concern for the mess she left behind.

Miceli calls for Allessio to put Pusheen in her carrier, but he doesn't apologize for my cat's tendency to knock down unsuspecting persons and he won't let me either.

"We do not apologize for Pusheen exhibiting her nature."

However he pays more than double for any damages and thanks the photographer for her efforts. With a hand low on my back, his fingers over the top swell of my butt, he guides me out of the suite.

My heart pounds so hard, I can feel it knocking against my breastbone.

Once we're in the back of what is no doubt an armor plated SUV, I ask, "What now?"

"Allessio will take Pusheen home and see her settled. We have reservations at Bar Pitti in thirty minutes."

"It's early for dinner in the City, isn't it?" I don't mind eating at six, but I expect Miceli to prefer later.

My thighs clench at the look he gives me. "I have plans for after."

"Can't wait."

He growls in response. "Don't tempt me or we aren't going to make it to dinner."

"I'm down for that." My stomach decides to take that moment to gurgle loudly.

"First, I feed you. Then I fuck you."

"You're so crude."

"And you love it."

I do. Almost as much as I love him .

When we get to the restaurant, the smells coming from inside make my stomach rumble again.

Ignoring the other people waiting in a line near the host stand, Miceli steps right up to it. "Miceli De Luca."

That's all he says. His name. But the man nods quickly and says, "Your party is this way."

As we go by the host stand, someone says, "We don't take reservations." I don't hear any more of the conversation though.

The ma?tre 'd seats us at a table on the terrace near the red velvet rope separating it from the sidewalk and leaves.

The table is set for two. "I thought he said our party was already here?"

Miceli shrugs and looks at the menu.

"I just heard that waiter tell the person calling they don't take reservations," I lean forward to whisper to Miceli.

He glances up briefly to meet my eyes. "They don't."

"But you said we had a reservation. You gave that guy your name."

"We do."

"You're not making any sense."

"When I call for a table in a Manhattan restaurant, one gets set aside for me."

"It must be nice to be king."

"Right now, I am the prince and it has its perks."

But he will be king. Once Severu De Luca becomes the next godfather, my fiancé will become a don. King of New York.

I have to stifle a giggle at the thought.

Irish mobsters don't think in terms of royalty. Boss is more than a title, it's a position and it comes with power and influence.

But my uncle is right. The Italian mafia is more formal than we are.

My pasta is being set down in front of me when a commotion behind me catches my attention.

I turn to look and gasp. "That's…"

I don't say the name of the celebrity aloud but I can't help staring.

"Yes, it is. Now, turn back around and eat your food, Róise."

Suitably chastised for my gauche behavior, I do as Miceli said. I know better than to rubberneck, don't I? How many times has my family been gawked at when we eat in public?

Uncle Brogan might not be a king, but he's as notorious as any member of the Royal Family. And we are by association.

Miceli's expression isn't judgy though. He's smiling at me. "Do you want to meet her? "

I shake my head. "Not really." The truth is, I'd rather be here, alone at the table with him.

Which makes me a lot less brainy than my grade point average implies.