Page 183 of The Italian

Yep, it’s official, this woman annoys me. I take another glass from the cupboard and pour her some wine.

“Thanks.” She fakes a smile as she looks me up and down.

“What are you doing here?”

She frowns. “I’m here to see Enrico, I already told you.”

“He was in his office in Milan all day.”

“This is of a personal matter.” She sips her wine.

“Anything I can help you with?” I smile sweetly.

Her eyes hold mine. “No.” She fakes a smile. “I need to speak to him… alone.”

Our eyes are locked.

Game on, mole. You may be gorgeous, sexy, a Madame, and Italian…

But he loves me, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.

I pick up the knife and go back to chopping the chicken.

“You cook?” she asks, amused.

“Don’t you?”

“No.” She lifts the wine glass to her lips. “And I most definitely wouldn’t if I had the staff that this house carries.”

I smirk.

“What’s that look for?” she asks.

“You think you’re above cooking?”

She flicks her hair behind her shoulders and gives a conceited shrug.

“That’s funny, because in your line of work I would have imagined that you’d be used to getting your hands dirty.” I smile sweetly.

Shit, did I say that out loud?

“What do you know about my line of work?” she fires back.

“Only what Enrico has told me. That you’re a Madame, and you work for him.”

She smiles. “And what else did Rico tell you about me?”

My hackles rise at her use of Rico as his name. “Everything,” I lie.

She lifts her chin in defiance. “So, he told you about the two of us?” She sips her wine and smiles sarcastically.

I get a vision of myself diving over the counter and strangling this whorebag.

Our eyes are locked.

“He did, actually,” I lie.

I chop the chicken with force, imagining it’s her head on the chopping block.