Savage Sinner: An Enemies To Lovers Russian - Italian Dark Mafia Romance (Sinfully Savage Mafia)

Interestingly, there aren’t any professional wedding photos of Matteo and Heaven. Knowing what I do of Heaven and her taste so far, I’d have expected at least one. Instead, I just see what looks to be a selfie at a restaurant. It’s the two of them, a little flushed but smiling big for the camera. Matteo’s arm is outstretched, so I can tell he took it himself.

A happy and private moment for the newlywed couple.

But no other photos posing in front of fancy cars with lots of flowers and bridesmaids and champagne.

I guess they decided to eliminate the bullshit.

That photo is real, not staged.

The corners of my lips lift.

It’s exactly what I would want, not that pure happiness is something I’ve come to expect in my life. In fact, it’s something that keeps getting yanked away, so I think it’s best not to even bother chasing it.

I walk over to another bookshelf and let out a low chuckle. They clearly didn’t go the same route with Aisling. She’s only five months old, and by the looks of it, has had more photo shoots than a lot of models.

They clearly adore her and each other.

I feel a sharp pang in my chest.

Perfect little family.

I want to hate them. I have to hate them.

But I can’t fight the emotions bubbling in my chest when I watch Heaven with Aisling and Matteo, when I see the light in Matteo’s eyes as he looks at his wife and plays with his daughter.

I’ve been here for less than a day with no real objective in sight other than focus on the hate.

But the human in me is fighting really hard against my vicious alter ego and again, the thought crosses my mind about the twinge of remorse I always feel when I pull a trigger…no matter what, no matter who.

It always takes me a second to block out the fact that there may be some redeeming quality that I’m about to snuff out.

I’ve seen a lot of redeeming qualities today.

And have gotten zero confirmation of the non-redeeming ones.

Motherfucker!

I hate that I’m waffling like this, that I’m concerned about this baby, that I’m drowning in pent-up desire for Dante, that I actually like Heaven and Matteo.

I was supposed to come here protected by a wall of pain and anger, and it’s just crumbling like a stale cookie around me?

After mere hours?

I am on this quest for revenge, and I need to remember that.

I’m a heartless bitch. It’s why I’m so good at my job. I am cold, unfeeling, and brutal, dammit!

“Babababababa!” Aisling says, jerking me from my self-pep talk.

I nuzzle her neck and make a funny sound with my mouth that has her chuckling loudly.

Oh, for Pete’s sake!

I’m not an au pair!

No, I am a freaking hot mess, though.

In the distance, I hear the keycard sound and I dart out of the office, pulling the door closed quietly behind me. I jog into the living room, my bare feet pattering against the cool, polished floor tiles, just in time to see Dante push open the door. His arms are laden with bags, and scents wafting from whatever is inside tease my nostrils, making my stomach rumble.

I wasn’t even hungry a minute ago, but whatever he’s carrying makes my mouth water.

He grins at me. “I have a surprise for you.”

I settle Aisling in her Pack and Play and walk into the kitchen for plates, napkins, and utensils. Since I’m not sure where anything is stored, I just keep opening and closing cabinet doors until I find what I’m looking for.

“You know, while I appreciate the hand-holding, I can actually manage to do some things on my own.” I peek at him through the half-wall leading into the living room. “You don’t have to babysit me, Dante.”

But even though I try to keep my tone light, the gravity of my words makes his brow furrow. “You know what? That really hurts, Anya. And after I brought you a whole meal prepared by your culinary idol, Tommy Marcone.” He shakes his head and picks up the bags he’d just started unloading. “I guess I can find my brother Sergio and eat with him and his fiancée. I’d hate for all this food to go to waste on someone who doesn’t appreciate my chivalrous efforts.”

And as if on cue, my belly growls at me. I hear the message loud and clear.

Don’t you dare let him leave with that food, you bitch!

I sigh. “Dante, wait. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, still packing things into the bags again. “Nope, now you’re just saying it because you want my food. Uh-uh.”

“It’s not because of the food!” I screech. “I’m sorry for saying that stuff.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.

“Then, don’t believe me!” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “I just…” You just what, Anya? You just happen to find yourself in the tangled web of a man who may have played a role in one of the most devastating experiences of your life and you don’t know how to handle it? “I just am not used to being waited on like this.” Okay, it’s weak, but it’s better than the alternative admission.

Part of me wants to throw him down on the couch, hold a knife to his throat, and demand he tell me everything he knows.