Mistress to a Monster Read online

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “The Russo in the kitchen, why did you help her?” He folded his arms, waiting for an answer. He could hurt her, but she hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “No one helped her. She only asked where the spices were, and they all ignored her. She looked … sad, sir. I am sorry.”

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Glory.”

  “You’re not afraid of her?”

  Glory shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “She … she is … nice.”

  He glared at her head. The maid wouldn’t look at him.

  “And you’re aware she is a Russo?”

  “Forgive me.”

  Why was she bowing her head? “Look at me,” he said.

  Glory lifted her head, and he saw fear in her eyes. He knew why. Some maids who tried to escape had ended up dead. Anyone who tried to betray the De Luca name always ended up dead.

  They had a choice.

  “You are not afraid of Milah?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then how would you like to earn your freedom?” he asked.

  “Sir?”

  He smiled, and she took a step back. “If you want to earn your freedom, you are to befriend Milah. Find out all of her secrets, and you are to report them to me, understood?”

  “But how do I … I have my jobs to do.”

  “Not anymore. Your one and only task is to be by Milah’s side from the moment she wakes up until I dismiss you. Deal?”

  Glory looked at the hand he offered and waited. If she refused, he would have her killed.

  She put her hand within his, and he was surprised by how firm her grip was. He now had someone who could learn all of Milah’s secrets. The kind that were never traceable.

  Glory left his office, and he made the arrangements for his men and staff to know that she wouldn’t be available to them. She had a different job to do.

  He was finishing up some emails when his office door was knocked on once again.

  “Come in,” he said.

  His chef, Renaldo, entered the room. He had cooked for his parents and had offered his services to him.

  “What is it, Renaldo?” he asked.

  “In all of my years of service, I have never been so insulted,” he said.

  “No?” Damon asked, leaning back in his chair to look at the chef. “And how have you been insulted?”

  He liked Renaldo.

  His father had said he was the best chef in the world, and he didn’t doubt that, but looking at the older man, he had to wonder if it was time to retire him.

  “Having that Russo whore in my kitchen. It is an insult I cannot bear.”

  Hearing Milah insulted shouldn’t have bothered him. She was a Russo. The name was nothing more than an insult to his men and to his staff.

  The Russos were vile. A name to be disgusted in having.

  But hearing this man insult Milah, calling her a whore, didn’t bode well with him.

  “Be careful,” he said. “Milah is my guest.”

  “Sir, she is … she should never be allowed to touch your … the kitchen…”

  Damon held his hand up. “She is cooking a meal that reminds her of her mother. Would you deny a woman that right?” he asked.

  “That is my kitchen,” the chef said. “Your father would not stand for it.”

  Damon rounded the desk and looked at the chef. He’d served the De Luca family for years. His cooking was the best he’d ever tasted.

  “Do you question my decision?” he asked.

  “Damon?”

  “It is Mr. De Luca to you, and I suggest you remember your place. If you want to continue to live, you will allow Milah to cook her mother’s dish. If not, I can make arrangements for you not to be so insulted again.”

  The threat was clear. Damon wouldn’t allow his insult to slide.

  The chef bowed his head, clearly realizing what he had done. A family chef or not, he was not the boss, Damon was.

  Chapter Five

  “I had no idea you could cook,” Glory said.

  Milah was shocked to see the maid return. She expected her to be ordered to stay far away from her. The guards did, or they sneered at her as if ready to kill her. The only one who didn’t make her feel like a prisoner was James. The one she shot. The only guard who should hate her for what she did, was the only one who made her feel … normal.

  She heard the whispers. These people hated her. She was aware of the hatred the Russo name inspired, but she wasn’t used to it being so close to her.

  No one would dare speak about her or treat her like this at her home. But that was the difference. At home, she was a Russo. The people there were loyal to her. This was the De Luca home. Her sworn enemy.

  “I can’t cook, not really. I’m not trained, but I used to watch my mom from time to time.” Her father had hated it when she’d cooked. He considered housework beneath himself and his wife. That was why they had staff to do it.

  Her mother loved to cook, though, and bake. It reminded her of her grandmother. A woman Milah never got the chance to meet but had always wished she had.

  “Actually, everything I know is because of her. Whenever there was a snowstorm, she liked to make what her mother would make, and obviously what her grandmother would make. It was passed down the female line, and this was it.”

  “It smells delicious.”

  Milah left her stool and went to the oven. She picked up some oven mitts, slid them on her hands, and removed the pot. Lifting the lid, she allowed the steam to escape and inhaled deeply. She was instantly transported back to a time she was a little girl. She’d been out building snowmen with her mother.

  Her father was nowhere to be found.

  The chef hadn’t been able to make it in, but her mother had cooked for them. They had prepared this stew before going out and playing. When they got back, they enjoyed it at the kitchen counter, laughing and giggling. Afterward, her mother made hot chocolate, which they enjoyed in front of a roaring fire.

  When her father wasn’t around, her mother got to be the woman she always wanted to be.

  Milah pulled away from the memory, gave the pot a stir, and placed it in the oven.

  “If you would like, you can try it,” Milah said, trying to control her emotions.

  “I don’t know if I could,” Glory said.

  She felt … deflated. Glory was a nice woman. The only one who was talking to her like she was a human being. The other staff ignored her or scowled her way.

  Such open animosity surprised her.

  “Of course. That is fine.”

  Milah sat back on the stool, waiting. She had already cleaned up all the dishes, so she didn’t need to do that. She kept her gaze on the oven, not wanting to look left or right and risk seeing the hatred in the others’ eyes. She had done nothing to them, and yet they despised her.

  Maybe she should have stayed in her freezing cold room.

  There had been no guards, and listening in on conversations, she learned the central heating wasn’t working. Damon had allowed the maintenance of the house to go to ruin, and now, trapped in a snowstorm, his men were having to chop firewood.

  She knew the safest and warmest place to be was in the kitchen.

  The chef left the kitchen, storming out the door, and he returned less than twenty minutes later, looking slightly pale. She had to wonder what he’d done.

  He hated her, that was clear.

  After another thirty minutes, when the staff were getting the meal ready for Damon, Milah went and checked on her stew. The vegetables were soft. The lentils were cooked. She picked up a spoon, tasted some of the sauce, and closed her eyes.

  She could almost feel her mother’s arms wrapped around her, laughing as she tasted it when she was a little girl. The joy she had at cooking.

  She opened her eyes and saw Glory had come closer. “I would … like to taste some.”

  Milah tried to contain her joy and washed the spoon she’d used. She didn’t want to ask for anything more than necessary.

  Holding it out to Glory, she waited as the maid tasted her food.

  “Oh, wow, that is delicious, Milah.” Glory chuckled. “And you said you couldn’t cook.”

  “Well, I’m not a trained chef. I don’t know what I’m doing.” She nibbled on her lip. “This is … it’s just food, you know.” She felt her cheeks heat. Glory was the first person she’d cooked for, and it felt good to know she liked it.

  The doors to the kitchen opened, and Milah looked to see Damon had entered.

  “Is your dish finished?” Damon asked.

  Milah looked at the steaming pot and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good, then bring it to the table. You will eat with me.”

  “I can eat in here.”

  “Consider this part of your payment for using my kitchen. You will eat with me.”

  Glory had bowed her head. She noticed most of the female staff did this.

  She didn’t want to go and eat with him, but she had wanted to cook this meal. There was no choice left to her.

  Nodding, she grabbed the oven mitts, slid them on, and picked up the pot once again.

  Damon held the door open as she carried her pot to the table. Would he humiliate her?

  Did she care?

  She had her mother’s stew, and that was all it had taken. The taste had reminded her of the woman she missed daily. She tried not to think of her mother because it just made her feel so miserable.

  There was a space at the table between herself and Damon. She leaned over and put the pot down on the heatproof mat. Then he opened the lid and put it on the spare oven mitt on the tabletop. After serving herself a generous portion, she sat down and watched as Damon to
ok his seat.

  Nibbling on her lip, she didn’t know if she should bother to ask him or let him pick if he wanted it. There was an abundance of food on the table. She saw several steaks, pieces of chicken, potatoes, and roasted vegetables.

  The chef hated her.

  Most of the staff did, all because she was a Russo.

  “May I try some?” he asked, holding out his plate.

  She was so surprised that at first, she didn’t even know what to say. “You’d like to try some?”

  “That’s what I said, and I don’t like to repeat myself.”

  She tried to contain her smile.

  He wanted to try her food.

  “You’re not worried it’s poisoned?”

  “I saw you taste it, and I doubt you’d ruin your mother’s dish just to try to kill me.”

  That was partly true. She would’ve made it awful so that each bite made him even more disgusted until he finally died.

  Milah didn’t say that, but she did serve him a small portion. Sitting back in her seat, she picked up her knife and fork, waiting for him to try it.

  I don’t care if he likes it or not.

  He can rot in hell.

  As he pressed the spoon to his lips, she waited with bated breath for what he would say. His eyes closed for the smallest second, and then a smile curved his lips.

  “Do you like it?” she asked, hating the words the moment they came out of her mouth.

  “That is delicious.”

  She ate her food, constantly looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He finished the small portion she gave him, and then when he asked for some more, she was delighted. Damon De Luca shouldn’t make her happy, but he did, and to her, that was just wrong.

  They ate in silence.

  Milah loved every second of the meal she’d prepared. Damon didn’t touch any of his chef’s food. They finished the meal she’d prepared.

  Glancing at the table, she knew this was going to cause her some trouble. She didn’t know exactly how, but she knew she’d have to be prepared for the worst.

  “Would you like to cook more often?” Damon asked, startling her out of her thoughts.

  She turned toward him with a frown. “Pardon?”

  “You heard me. Would you like to cook more often?”

  “Your chef won’t like that.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck what my chef thinks. I’m the boss here. He’ll learn to do as he was told.”

  She detected the threat in his voice. Staring at Damon, his dark, penetrating gaze looking back at her, she had to wonder what he was thinking. What was he planning? He wouldn’t give her anything.

  His disgust of who she was was clear to her every moment she was in his company. Why would he be nice? Did he feel guilty for what happened in the dungeon or cave or whatever the hell that was?

  Why would he?

  He was a De Luca. They never felt remorse for anything.

  “What will I have to do?” she asked.

  “Keep me company every night,” he said.

  There it was.

  “I won’t sleep with you.”

  “Did I say sleep?”

  “I won’t … have sex with you.”

  He chuckled. “Like I said before, Milah, when I fuck you, you’ll be begging me for it.”

  She hated him.

  Cooking was a nice distraction from her current situation. From the moment she’d been taken, she had expected the worst. For him to rape her, to hurt her. He’d hurt her, not by his own hands, but by those that served him.

  “Then I agree,” she said. She had no intention of begging him for sex.

  They were enemies. Sex would never happen between them. He would beg her before she ever allowed that to happen.

  Damon smiled. “I look forward to it.”

  She got to her feet, reaching for the dishes.

  “I have staff who do that. Go and get washed. You owe me tonight.”

  She clenched her hands into fists. His staff wouldn’t be happy with her being in the kitchen. She wasn’t going to overstay her welcome. The chef looked ready to kill her with his butcher’s knife. She wasn’t a fool.

  The people here were her enemy. Even Glory. She didn’t know why the young maid had offered to stay with her, or why she’d seemed friendly.

  She wasn’t going to let her guard down.

  This house and all the property around was her battleground. She had to do whatever it took to make it out alive.

  One day, she would live as a Flynn, and the Russo name would be a thing of the past.

  ****

  Damon waited for Milah to arrive. Glory had already given him an update on today’s progress. There was nothing to report.

  This was a new friendship between the two.

  He doubted Milah would trust the young maid for some time. She might share little trivial things, but for the most part, she’d be guarded, as anyone would in her situation. He couldn’t blame her.

  Damon sat down on the edge of the bed. Genius hadn’t gotten back in touch, and with the snow falling, there was nothing more he could do.

  He had his men on the outside dealing with all the necessary details when it came to Antonio Russo. The man’s very name was enough to make his skin crawl. Damon despised him.

  From all angles, he was squeezing him for everything. The ports were already taken, along with the brothels.

  He’d pushed the cartels away from Russo, as well as the MCs that were on his side. It was amazing how a change of thinking and perspective could make people change their reasoning. They had all become part of De Luca.

  His father had taught him that loyalty was the most valuable asset, as well as fear. People tried to tame what they feared, or they hid from it.

  Damon had built a reputation for being the monster in the De Luca empire, and they all should fear him.

  There was a small knock on the door, and he called for Milah to enter. There was only one person who would knock so … hesitantly.

  Milah opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Close it,” he said.

  She turned her back to him and closed the door. He saw her hand rest on the wood. Did he make her nervous? He hoped so.

  She wore a pair of flannel pajamas he’d supplied. They gave her plenty of modesty. He doubted she would have felt comfortable coming to him in a silk and lace negligee, or an old nightshirt that she’d worn when she was sick.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  Milah looked at him with a frown. “Fine. You?”

  He smiled. “Do you not think that our time together could go by a lot easier if we’re pleasant with each other?”

  “Cut the crap, De Luca. You are not fooling me, and I doubt you’d fool any of your staff. You can’t stand me.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “You don’t care to know me,” she said. “All you see is a Russo. Everyone does.”

  He folded his arms and looked at her.

  Her hands were clenched at her sides, and he saw the slight tensing of her jaw. She didn’t like how people saw her.

  Why?

  She’d been a Russo all her life. Power and privilege had come to her without any effort.

  “And you don’t think we can make the most of it.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “How about the pleasure of your company?”

  “You hurt my father in such a way that you got me out of a business deal. We’re never going to marry. You hold all the cards right now. You can do with me what you wish. I have no power, and yet, you’re … being nice.”

  “Would you like me to be mean?” he asked, getting to his feet and advancing toward her.

  Milah tried to stay strong and firm, but with him as her adversary, it was next to impossible. She finally stumbled back, trying to create some distance between them.

  He liked that.

  The wall stopped her from getting far, and he pressed his hands on either side of her head. She didn’t look afraid, but she assessed him, waiting for him to attack. She was going on the defensive, which he found intriguing.

  “Who trained you?” he asked.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  A lie.

  Milah was keeping her ability to fight back a secret. It was a badly kept one, but he was happy to play along for the time being.

  “I think it is best I go back to my room.” She didn’t make a move to leave, and he didn’t step back either.

  He stared at her, watching, waiting, curious. Milah wasn’t a spoiled bitch.