Page 90 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
A woman’s.
Not young. Not staff-polite. Real laughter, low and warm, with a rasp at the end like she has spent a lifetime telling people the truth and enjoying how often they ignored it.
I step into the doorway.
Heath is on the couch beneath a blanket, pale and tired but awake. His cheeks are still flushed, though not like yesterday. Erin sits beside him with Mr. Buttons tucked beneath one arm and a piece of toast in her other hand. Stefano stands near the window in a black suit, speaking quietly into his phone while watching the room with the kind of attention he pretends is not care.
And at the low table, arranging plates with brisk authority, is an older woman I have never seen before.
She is short, round in the shoulders, with silver hair pinned in a loose knot and brown skin creased by age, sun, and the kind of expressions that leave permanent evidence. Her dress is simple, dark blue, covered by a white apron that looks like she chose it for practicality and would use it as a weapon if necessary. Gold hoops hang from her ears. A rosary bracelet circles one wrist. She moves around Stefano’s guarded little kingdom like she has never feared a man in it.
She looks up when I enter.
Her eyes move over me once. Not assessing like Omar. Not inventorying like Stefano. Taking measure in a way that feels older than both.
“You must be Maya,” she says.
I glance at Stefano.
His gaze lifts from the phone.
“Dolores,” he says. “This is Maya Reeves.”
“Don’t introduce me like I’m a tax auditor.” Dolores wipes her hands on her apron and crosses the room before I can decide what to do with her. She takes both my hands in hers, ignoring my bandage and my surprise with equal confidence. “Look at you. Too thin. Too tired. And still standing like you might bite someone.”
“She might,” Omar says from behind me.
Dolores turns her head. “Then perhaps people should stop putting their fingers near her mouth.”
Omar goes silent.
I blink.
Erin giggles.
Heath’s mouth twitches beneath the blanket.
Stefano looks at Dolores with the faintest curve at his mouth, and for one strange second, the entire house feels tilted off its axis.
“I like her,” I say.
Dolores pats my hands. “Good. Eat.”
“I just woke up.”
“That is not an argument.”
“It usually is.”
“Not with me.”
She releases me and points to the chair beside Heath, as if the matter has been settled by international law. I sit because every survival instinct I have tells me arguing with this woman would be more dangerous than arguing with Stefano.
Heath watches me carefully. “You came back.”
“I keep doing that.”
“You slept.”
