Page 119 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
Maya watches me chew, as if she expects the act itself to reveal a weakness.
Then she smiles.
It is small. Unplanned. Gone almost immediately.
The movie continues. The hero crashes another vehicle, gets shot in the shoulder, and manages to climb a forty-story building with one arm.
Maya shifts closer to the aisle between our seats, pointing at the screen. “That man should be dead.”
“He is not.”
“His shoulder is shredded.”
“He has motivation.”
“That is not medical care.”
“It has worked for him so far.”
She stares at me.
Then she laughs.
The sound is quiet at first. It grows when Omar mutters, “He is right. The man has plot armor,” without taking his eyes off the laptop.
Maya covers her mouth, but it does nothing to hide the laugh.
I watch her more than the movie.
She does not notice at first. When she does, she looks at me over her hand.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is never true when you say it.”
“I was thinking you are very loud for someone who claimed she wanted silence this morning.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“Maybe.”
She reaches for the pretzels again, but I take the bowl first and move it to my side.
Her brows rise. “Did you just steal the snacks?”
“You were not eating them.”
“I was pacing myself.”
“You are losing focus.”
“I am watching a movie masterpiece.”
“You are criticizing a man for surviving a helicopter crash.”
“He deserved the criticism.”
