Page 26 of Texting My Mafia Boss

She sniffles. “They look really, really good, Daddy. I don’t want to eat them, they look so good.”

I swallow a lump of emotion. I feel Mara looking at me. I glance at her. She’s smiling, her eyes full of light. She frowns when I don’t return the smile back. The light in her eyes dims and turns to hurt.

Reaching over, I touch Sylvie’s shoulder. “I’ll make you another masterpiece sometime.”

“When?” she asks.

I remember what Mara said about promises. “As soon as I can,” I tell her, meaning it.

She nods. “Okay, Daddy.”

We all eat for a minute or two, when I realize I’ve forgotten the drinks. “Coffee?” I ask Mara, without looking at her.

“Sure,” she replies, voice strange.

“Can I have coffee?” Sylvie asks.

I chuckle. “Sure, when you’re eighty.”

“Butyou’renot eighty, andyou’rehaving a coffee.”

“You’re too smart for me, but you’re still getting OJ.”

“I’ll get the drinks,” Mara says, standing. I don’t look at her. Livia must enter, because Mara says from behind me, “Coffee, Livia?”

“Sure.” She joins us at the table.

Sylvie finishes her pancakes then gives me the sweetest look. “Daddy, are you going to come to my ballet recital?”

I swallow a lump. Thinking about how important this is to her—and the fact that I shouldn’t promise. I really shouldn’t.

It’s not like a regular job. If the Cartel or another Family hits us, what am I going to do, abandon my men, let them die? Sometimes, I think it was better my parents told me who I was, about this dark, dangerous life, before I was old enough to feel betrayed. Even if it probably messed me up.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs into the silence when I don’t answer.

“When is it?” I ask.

“Next week, Friday,” Mara mutters.

“I’ll be there,” I say, smiling at my daughter, her face lighting up.

“Promise?” she asks.

“Promise. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“We have to practice, Mara!” Sylvie sings. “As much as possible. Daddy’s going to see me dance.”

She leaps to her feet. Mara stands too, her chair making a harsh noise. “Do you mind?” she says.

Still not looking at her, I say, “Of course not.”

When they leave the room, Livia says, “Have you had sex with her?”

I spin to her in shock. “What?”

“You could’ve cut that tension with a butter knife that’s spent the last decade being blunted,” she says. “What was that about? You wouldn’t even look at her. But when she handed you your cup of coffee, you looked wild, Ettore.”

I grind my teeth. She’s either too perceptive or I’m too obvious. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”