Page 23 of Texting My Mafia Boss

Ettore: You mentioned foster parents before, Mara. Are you speaking from experience?

I bite down, feeling like he’s reaching into my brain, my heart, places he has no business being. But this is what I want, surely. To help this man to open up, to be more emotionally available. That will be good for his daughter… or that’s the story I’m telling myself.

Mara: Yes. Many people made many promises to me as a kid. It messed with my head. But I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman. That’s all behind me now. Nonetheless it hurt at the time.

Ettore: I’m sorry you had to go through that. But I’m shocked to hear you say that it’s behind you. In my experience, childhood’s claws never stop grasping. I’m forty-two and I still feel it.

I swallow, emotion tugging at me. And something else. There’s another complication, right? His age, fifteen years older. I should care about that. But also, I think, we’re both grown adults and we can do what we want. I honestly don’t even care. Maybe it’d be easier if I did.

Ettore: I realize the irony. I’m talking about the aftereffects of childhood and my daughter is drawing me in bleakness. I get it, Mara. I’m trying.

Mara: I know you’re trying. I’ve seen you with her.

I pause, chewing my lip.

Mara: Perhaps you’re right. Maybe the claws of childhood never let you go and that’s just something I tell myself. It doesn’t matter now. All I can do is put one foot in front of the other.

Ettore: Amen to that.

Ettore: You looked beautiful today by the way. You did something different with your hair. And your makeup looked like it took time and effort.

I drop the phone, my head spinning. A simple compliment, fired out of nowhere, shouldn’t be enough to provoke this response in me.

Mara: Way to change the subject.

Ettore: I know I shouldn’t say things like that.

Mara: I don’t mind.

Ettore: I know you don’t. That’s what scares me. This is about Sylvie. Not us.

The wordusburns into me, my body aching.

Mara: There is no “us.”

I send the message because I have to. One of us has to stop this before it gets started.

Ettore: You’re right.

Mara: Are you drunk?

Ettore: Would that make it better? If I was writing this by mistake, if I didn’t mean it?

I don’t know how to answer that. I’m not sure if it would make it worse or better or anything in between. I just wish I could think clearly when it comes to this mysterious man.

Mara: I should get some rest.

I put my phone down, switching it to silent. In the dark, alone, a smile spreads across my face.

He notices the effort I made today. He really noticed…and he liked it.

When I hear Sylvie murmuring outside my room, I leap to my feet and rush to the door. I follow the sound, finding her inside a bedroom I’ve never thought to look inside because I always assumed it was locked. There’s a keyhole with a key inside now.

Within, I find Sylvie lying on a large bed, knees drawn to her chest, whispering. “Mommy,” she whispers. “Mommy, Mommy.” She sounds sleepy, not all there. If she wasn’t a kid, I’d say she sounds drunk.

I glance around the room, chest going tight. This must be the bedroom Ettore and his ex-wife shared. Vera, I know her name was, though I’ve never seen a picture of her. Now, there are several on the walls. Tall and dark and elegant, and so… not me.

No, Mara. This isn’t about you.