Devil's Advocate: A Dark Mafia Romance (Devil's Playground Book 1) by Vivi Paige (different ereaders .TXT) 📗

scenario, I was a marinara-covered monster grunting with effort as I tried to worm my way out of the chair.

Knowing there was no way I’d be able to free myself with pure effort, I straightened my back and started rocking the chair from side to side. The legs on the chair tapped the floor once, twice, and then I tipped over to the side.

I was half-hoping for the chair to break, but that didn’t happen. Instead, the damn thing just bowled over, my left side slamming against the hardwood floor.

I’m gonna fucking kill him, I thought, anger simmering in my veins. There were a lot of assholes in the world, but Indro definitely took the cake when it came to the art of assholery.

As if my thoughts had summoned him, I heard the front door swing open, part of it scraping against the floor. I looked up to see Indro standing on the doorway, hands on his hips as he looked at the door’s broken hinges.

“You gotta get that fixed up,” he said, so casually you’d think he was commenting on the weather. “This day and age, you really have to focus on home security.”

“You’re the one who burst that door open,” I threw out, spitting out some marinara as it got into my mouth. “Now get over her and free me.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask nicely.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I snarled, rocking my body like a lame turtle someone had turned on its back. “Get over here right now, asshole.”

“Or what?” He stood over me, looking down with an expression of amusement. “Are you going to bite my ankles or something?”

I just glared at him.

If looks could kill, then Indro would have popped out of existence in that moment. Unfortunately for me, my glare seemed completely devoid of any special powers. I figured it didn’t help that I was lying on the ground, covered in marinara.

“I swear to God, Indro,” I continued, trying to speak through the marinara that dripped down my cheeks and into my mouth. “If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll make it my life’s mission to—”

“You sure like talking, ragazza.” With a sigh, Indro turned his back to me and ventured into the kitchen. I craned my neck, trying to see what he was doing, but I could only hear him rummaging through the drawers. Moments later, he was back, a dishcloth in one hand and a ball of kitchen twine in the other.

“What are you—?”

He went down on one knee and, unceremoniously, stuffed the cloth inside my mouth and tied it around my head with the twine. My insults became useless and muffled, and I went back to glaring.

“Much better now.” Clearly satisfied, he rose to his feet, grinning as he watched me squirm on the floor. “Have you ever heard of that theory that says silence shouldn’t be awkward? Some people say that, when a man and a woman are getting to know each other, silence can be a sign of comfort.” As if to make a point, he walked past me and sank himself into the couch, propping his leather shoes on top of my coffee table. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pretty comfortable right now.”

I tried to put together a string of curses and insults but, now that I was gagged, it was useless. I could only lie there, watching as Indro grabbed the remote and went through the channels like some bored kid trying to find a half-decent football game.

“Do you have any beer?” he asked me, shifting in his seat so that he could look at me. “Decent beer, I mean. I don’t drink that light pisswater crap.” Again, my reply came out as an angry and unintelligible mutter, and Indro sighed. “Guess not.”

He went back to flicking through the TV channels, the remote hanging limply from his hand, but it wasn’t long before he grew tired of it. He threw the remote aside, stretched his back, and sprang to his feet.

“Listen, I’m moving in for a while. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” He stared at me, as if I was capable of speaking through that damn cloth, and then shook his head. “Man, you’re a mess. As a gesture of good will, let me get you cleaned up. We’re gonna be roomies, after all.”

He kneeled beside me and, with a swift motion, undid the knotted extension cord. I let out a relieved groan as the pressure of the rubber on my arms faded, and pushed myself up to a sitting position. I tried reaching for the cloth in my mouth but, before I could, Indro grabbed my wrist and pulled me up to my feet.

“I think it’s better we stick with the cloth,” he said, a grin spreading across his lips. “I’ve just been shot at, you know, and my ears are still ringing. Let’s save all those nasty words of yours for later.”

With that, he twisted one arm behind my back and pushed me across the living room. He stopped for a moment, trying to get his bearings, and then led me down the corridor and into the master bedroom.

“Nice,” he said with an approving nod, his eyes scanning the room. “You’re a woman of taste, I can tell.”

Unable to reply, I just let him push me inside the bathroom and, just a few seconds later, I was shoved inside the shower stall. Without any warning at all, Indro grabbed the shower head and sprayed me with ice-cold water, and I instinctively slammed myself against the tiled wall.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, fiddling with the faucet until the water started to warm. He grinned. “Sorry about that.”

Closing my eyes, I let the warm water lap at my body, washing away all that sticky marinara. At my feet, the water turned into a swirl of red as the tomato sauce drifted toward the drain.

“Much better now,” Indro said, “but still not enough.” He propped the shower head on