Page 112 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“Especially then.”
“And me?”
Stefano turns toward him fully. “You too.”
Heath’s eyes shine, but he looks away before the tears can fall. Stefano does not call attention to it. He reaches for the blanket, pulls it more securely around the boy’s shoulders, and stands.
“Bed,” he says.
Heath sighs. “That sounds like an order.”
“It is.”
“But nicer.”
“Do not tell anyone.”
A small smile appears and disappears on Heath’s face.
Stefano walks him back toward the children’s room. At the doorway, Heath turns around.
“Maya?”
“I’m here.”
“Come back.”
“I will,” I say.
He looks at me for another second, then disappears into the room. Stefano closes the door softly behind him. When he turns back, the softness has already left his face.
“What?” I ask.
“You made a promise.”
“So did you.”
“I do not make promises lightly.”
“Neither do I.”
His gaze holds mine. I know he is thinking about Boston. About Leon. About whatever part of the plan he has locked away, which I cannot reach.
Then he walks past me toward the stairs.
“Come downstairs,” he says.
The kitchen is quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the low light over the island. Someone has left a bowl of fruit on the counter and a loaf of bread beneath a clean towel. The room feels almost normal in a way the rest of this house never manages. There are no guards visible. No weapons on display. No reminders that the man standing at the stove has men who kill for him and enemies who map his gates from parked cars.
Stefano pours coffee into two mugs.
“You drink coffee this late?” I ask.
“I’m not sleeping.”
“Healthy.”
“I wasn’t asking for medical advice.”
