Page 63 of Mafia Queen
Santino laughs as if he doesn’t have a problem in the world, then he holds my head the way he does, looking at me deeply and with appreciation. “Good girl.”
“Now we can get my family.” He doesn’t nod or confirm. This should have set off alarm bells, but I am trusting, and in love, and a fool. “Like you promised.”
He knows damn well what he said, but he regrets it. I can tell.
“I did not promise.”
“If my zio got the Beretta out of the basement, he’s not going to go without a fight. He’s a stubborn old man and he’s going to get hurt.”
“He won’t.”
“Please,” I plead. “Please don’t send an armed gang for him.”
“You’re insisting.”
“I am.”
He slides the gun from my hand, reaches into his holster for a fresh magazine, and slides it into the handle. He releases the slide, then he drops the magazine again.
“You do it,” he says, handing both to me.
I take the gun, then the ammunition, and snap it in exactly the way he did.
“Good girl. Put it away.”
I tuck it into the holster and snap the flap.
“Wear it all the time,” he says.
“Even when you’re right next to me?”
“Yes.” He kisses me tenderly. It’s a short, sweet peck on the lips. “I have things to take care of. Be back here in five minutes.”
“Okay.”
He’s about to walk off when he stops, turns, and holds my head still so he can devour me in a kiss so unexpectedly passionate, my heart melts from the heat of it, leaving me too boneless to match his fervor. Lost in a kiss that unfolds the minutes inside seconds, I don’t question his neediness.
18
VIOLETTA
It takes me three and a half minutes to go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. Ten seconds to go down the stairs. I’m at the head of the driveway with a minute to spare.
Santino is not there.
Not a minute later. Not ten minutes later.
He’s probably shouting orders at someone. I’ll have to take him by the elbow and drag him away. The sooner we bring my Z’s up here to safety, the sooner he can finish this war and we can work on getting pregnant again. I smirk at the thought.
But he’s not in the garage getting the car out. The Alfa’s still there, but the Mercedes is gone.
He must be waiting at the gate… Except he’s not.
He’s not in the kitchen, or the basement, or back in our room.
“Remo,” I say when I see a familiar face. “Have you seen Santino?”
“Just now?” He runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, he left with Armando.”
