Page 27 of Texting My Mafia Boss

“Sure you don’t,” Livia says. She aims a finger at me. “Sylvie likes Mara, a lot. You need to think about your daughter before you do anything you can’t take back.”

“Are you seriously going to lecture me about putting my daughter first?” I snap. “All her life, that’s all I’ve ever done. She’s the only person I truly cared about. Everything I do is for her. Mara can’t understand why I have to be distant sometimes. She thinks I’m just some selfish CEO douchebag, and that breaks me a little, sure. Butyouunderstand. This is life and death we’re talking about.”

Livia nods, then says, “It breaks you that Mara thinks of you in that way? Doesn’t that demonstrate my point? She’s becoming too much for you, Ettore. Perhaps you haven’t crossed that line. But you can’t sit there and tell me there isn’t something there.”

“What if there is?” I demand. “Would that be so bad? Am I destined to spend the rest of my life alone, no woman, no love, no connection of any kind?”

“You’re right. I grew up in this life, just like you. You’re a Don. Go into the city and go into any bar and you could have any woman you want.”

“I don’t want any woman.” I stand. “And I haven’t even said I want Mara. You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” she says firmly.

I wave a hand. “Do your job. Clean this up.”

She snorts out a laugh. “Now you’re being cruel, which is unlike you. Every word proves my point.”

“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think,” I growl. “Maybe all this…” I wave at the estate in general. “Is the mask. The real me is out there. The man with blood on his hands. The man who will never be clean.”

“I don’t think so, and I don’t think you do either.”

“You don’t know everything, Livia.”

I storm out, knowing I’m acting like a petulant child. I can’t help it.

She hit the mark there with laser precision.

CHAPTER 11

MARA

Isit in the playroom, a book open in my lap. Reading feels impossible right now. I keep thinking about breakfast, how icy Ettore was. I know what he’s doing. He wasn’t just cold.

He seemed intentionally remote, as if shielding me or himself from his overwhelming passion. My very presence seemed to inflict pain upon him.

Sylvie is napping on the couch, tired from all her ballet practice. Her face lit up when Ettore said he was going to be at her recital. I bit my tongue, thinking about what I told him before. He shouldn’t make promises if he doesn’t mean to keep them.

My mind goes back to all the near misses, the touches, the smoldering looks. Knowing I shouldn’t obsess over these doesn’t make it any easier.

There’s something else too. The people coming and going from the house. The fact that Ettore is only home forsomeof his work, and in the office for the rest. When we were texting about hiswork, certain things began to click into place. He’s mysterious, broody, and terrifying in moments.

I don’t want to let my mind go to organized crime. If I suspect that, but still stay, what does that say about me? It means I’m turning a blind eye because his daughter is sweet and deserves somebody. But it makes so much sense. That’s why people at the school are so distant or overly polite to me. They’re scared of him.

I try not to jump to conclusions, but it’s impossible not to. These seem like the only reasonable conclusions. He gets this fierce, entitled energy sometimes. Like he’s used to the whole world giving him what he wants. And he’s relieved when I push back against him, as if he’s been waiting years for a woman to do that.

My phone chiming brings me back.

Ettore: How is she doing?

My face lights up with a smile immediately, especially when he sends the follow-up.

Ettore: Did she seem upset to you earlier? She seemed bright and happy to me, but sometimes, I worry she feels she has to seem bright and happy to me. But then, if I tell her that, maybe she’ll start thinking she’s too bright and happy.

My smile grows wider when he sends another follow-up.

Ettore: You see what it’s like in my head?

I tuck my knees to my chest. My hips pulse, a phantom reminder of where his hands touched me.