Guarding The Bratty Mafia Heiress

COOPER

"Ow! Can't you be more gentle?" the ungrateful brat whines, glaring at me from the corner of her eyes. "Who taught you how to stitch a cut, your crazy ex-boyfriends who craved pain?"

"I picked it up while serving in the army," I reply. She hisses as the needle digs into her skin. "You know, for someone who would never date me, you sure are obsessed with my exes."

"Because I will always pity them for surviving a control freak."

"It's a learned habit. I have four younger siblings, and some men have a kink for being told what to do," I mutter, engaging in this stupid conversation because of her gash.

"Four siblings? That explains so much about you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have been bossing people around your entire life. It's second nature to you."

"Someone had to keep them alive, when our parents worked double shifts."

"Now, back to the sex life. What's your own kink?" Her voice drops lower, with curiosity. "What drives you wild?"

I focus on knotting the final stitch. "I'm not telling you that, princess."

She pokes her bottom lips out. "Come on, I'm bored. I haven't had my phone all day."

"It's been fifteen hours."

"Exactly. That's basically forever in normal people time."

"People lived for centuries without smartphones."

"Yeah, and your role models also died of the plague and thought bathing was dangerous."

I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "Fair point."

"I will take any juicy gossip I can get. Rough sex, roleplay, forbidden fruit..." My hands pause above her head. Fck. She guessed my weakness correctly.

"Wait, forbidden?" Her voice shoots up in excitement. "What is it? You cheated with a close friend's partner? Fcked your friend's son?"

"Stay still, Vittoria," I caution the nosy heiress who suddenly thinks she is Oprah Winfrey.

"You fcked your friend's child, you perv!" She is practically laughing at me now. "Was he legal?"

"He was nineteen, I was twenty-three. Stop making it sound worse than it was."

I hastily tie off the stitch, then check my work. "And we're done here." I stand, needing to put some distance between us.

She grabs my biceps, gently tugging me back. "Hey, don't bail. It's just getting good."

"That was a long time ago," I reluctantly admit to her smiling face. "I was young and allowed my dick to do the thinking."

"Did his father know?"

"No, he never suspected. Besides, he went to college, and I got stationed in Afghanistan. That was the last time we spoke."

She searches my face for any trace of emotion. "Do you miss him?"

I think of April for the first time in months. She always knew how to push my buttons, even dropping out of Brown to join my unit.

"Blue, yellow, orange," I whisper, inhaling deeply. "In summary, a pampered troublemaker."

"Like me?" she asks, eyes glinting with interest. "You're attracted to women like me?"

My eyes linger on her lips, daring me to cross the line and take what she is offering.

"Men like you," I say, the lie scraping my throat. I step back, forcing in a breath. "Get dressed and come downstairs."

Vittoria walks in and rests her elbows on the counter, smirking. "So, what gourmet disaster are you cooking up? Fair warning, I'm extremely picky."

"Are you allergic to anything?" I ask, pulling out ingredients and dropping them on the counter.

"Yeah, I am. I'm allergic to boring plating, meals without wine, and junk food." She ticks each off on her fingers. "I have to maintain this body."

"I meant medical allergies," I say, shooting her an unimpressed look. "Not Her Highness's preferences."

"Then no, Major. No life threatening allergies that you need to worry about."

I mentally run through the recipe again. "Grab the pasta from the shelf, we're making Pasta Puttanesca."

She drops the pack on the counter and perches on a stool. "You mind telling me what the hell you're doing?"

She taps her acrylic nails loudly on the island counter. "Sitting down, duh."

"When I said we would prepare this, I meant your ass too."

"Nope, you're on your own."

This annoying little brat. "Get your butt up and turn on the stove," I growl at her shocked expression.

"Or what, Cooper?" That spark of defiance in her eyes makes my cock throb.

I narrow my eyes, stepping closer. "Vittoria, don't test me."

She rolls her eyes but finally stands, moving beside me.

"Which button do I press? It's not turning on," she says, fiddling with the stove.

I watch the clueless girl struggle. This is a basic life skill, for goodness' sake. I take her hand in mine and guide it over the controls.

"This one ignites the burner while this one regulates the heat, got it?"

"Yes, professor."

"Here, princess." I place a knife in her palm. "Chop the anchovies, garlic, onion, and pitted olives." That should be simple enough for her rich ass.

She picks up an anchovy between two fingers, making a face. "This is so gross, why can't we just order takeout?"

"Because we're in the middle of nowhere, and constant delivery draws attention.'"

I turn to heat up the pan when I hear, "fck!" The knife clattering to the floor as she clutches a bloody thumb.

I exhale loudly, this kid is hopeless. "Is it deep?" I ask, wrapping my hand around her thumb.

"Don't touch me! I'm not used to this, and you're not fcking listening! I hope you're happy!" she yells, storming upstairs to her room.The bedroom door slams hard enough to rattle the walls.

I let her go. Chasing Vittoria Giordano would only make things worse, so I keep cooking, waiting it out.

I finish chopping the veggies she abandoned, toss them into the pan with olive oil, and let the kitchen fill with the sharp, briny aroma of garlic.