Page 139 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“He should have.”
“Yes.”
The agreement makes me angrier because it leaves nowhere for the argument to go.
Victor watches me for a moment. “He didn't leave the twins unprotected.”
“No,” I say. “He left me.”
The words come out before I can stop them.
Victor’s gaze shifts.
I want to take them back. I do not.
“He thinks you hate him,” Victor says.
“Maybe I do.”
“Do you?”
The question lands with more force than it deserves.
I look toward the pastry case instead of answering. The cinnamon rolls blur behind the glass. My stomach rolls again, sudden and hard enough that I have to press a hand beneath the table.
Victor notices.
“Maya.”
“I am fine.”
“You are turning gray.”
“I said I am fine.”
The server passes near our table carrying a tray of warm croissants. Butter fills the air.
I stand too fast.
The chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
Victor rises with me. “Do you need?—”
“No.”
I make it three steps toward the restroom before the nausea forces me to stop. I catch the edge of the wall with one hand and breathe through my nose, willing the room to settle.
It does not.
A month.
The number hits me without warning. A month since Boston. A month since the last night with Stefano. My hand slides to my lower stomach. The gesture is instinctive, protective, and sudden enough to scare me.
No. Not yet. Not here.
Behind me, Victor’s voice is quieter. “Should I call Alex?”
“No.” I swallow hard. “No. I just need air.”
