Page 7 of Texting My Mafia Boss

“Iknow. But the needles are like chopsticks when you try to eat noodles. Have you ever eaten noodles with chopsticks?”

“No. I tried. But I’m terrible at it.”

She stands, shaking her head, giggling. She adjusts her sleeves when the laughter stops. That seems to be a tic of hers. Like she’s reminding herself not to get too happy. “How can you be good at knitting but bad with chopsticks?”

“A girl can’t have it all,” I say with a shrug.

“Why can’t she?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

I’ve put my foot in it. She’s probably thinking about the fact that she rarely interacts with her dad. I don’t know if that’s fair. I haven’t been here for a week. Livia mentioned something about a big business deal, but I still don’t know what he does. Ettore Bellandi. What a name.

I push that thought away. “Do you want a nap, Sylvie?” I ask.

“I’m not tired,” she says, then yawns. She meets my eyes and laughs. “That wasn’t a real yawn.”

“No? What’s a real yawn?”

“Like this.” She puts her all into it, stretching her arms over her head. “Will you carry me?”

“Sure.”

I scoop her up, carrying her through the house. She clings to me tightly. Her bedroom is a princess’s wonderland, a dream-come-true bedroom for any girl her age. But appearances can be deceiving. When I put her on the four-poster bed, she looks tiny and alone.

“Don’t let me sleep forever,” she says.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Hey, was that a pun? Dream? You dream when you sleep.”

“I think it might’ve been. I’m learning from you,” I say, tapping her on her cute button nose.

I leave her to her nap, then walk down the tall, wide corridors. I can’t help but look at the photos on the walls. In the pictures, Sylvie and Ettore seem to have a good relationship. He’s always smiling in what seems like a genuine way, and Sylvie looks at him with pure love. Whenever she mentions him, it’s always confidently, happily.

Daddy wears such funny and nice suits.

Daddy tells me I can be anything I want.

Daddy is the biggest and best person.

Where is he, then? Does he interact with her when I go home? But I’m here for her bedtime. I doubt any good father returns home to wake his daughter in the middle of the night, disrupting her much needed sleep. Perhaps it is that he’s just busy, then. With business, whatever that means.

I grab my workout bag, deciding I’ll use the gym. Livia said I could, so why not? I’ve been wanting to get into exercise for a while now, but never found the time or money for the gym.

As I walk, I caution myself. I’ve got to be careful here. There’s a big chance I’m pouring all my insecurities onto that little girl. I don’t know enough about her or her father to pass judgment. Just because my own family didn’t care, it doesn’t mean the same thing is happening here.

Outside the gym door, I stop. I hear a man groaning in there. Hot, husky groans, like he’s making love to someone.Don’t be stupid. Is it one of the staff members? I’ve noticed peoplecoming and going from the estate, delivery drivers, cleaners, butlers, men in suits, men in leather jackets. Sylvie doesn’t react like anything strange is going on, so it must be routine around here.

I knock on the door. “Hello?”

“It’s open,” a man grunts.

I push open the door…

And quickly close my mouth before my jaw hits the floor. It’s shock because he’s here, working out, when his daughter is in the same house. Sure, it’s huge. Two people could spend a year here and never run into each other. But when Sylvie said her dad was working, I thought that meant somewhere else.

Yes, there’s another reason. Just… him. The steam rising from his body. His sheer physical presence.

Ettore Bellandi sits up on the weight bench, a wet tank clinging to his chiseled body. His body glistens, the shirt showing glimpses of his toned arms and chest. His sweat drenched hair is wild compared to the slick style I’ve seen in pictures.