Page 43 of Revenge on the Mafia

Isidora walked in, carrying two plates. Seeing me behind it, she kept the door open for a second longer. It was enough to catch the brunt of his anger seeping through the gap right at me. I pulled back with a gasp. The door swung shut.

“Told you.”

I stared at the door. It felt like he bored into my soul in that one second.

“I thought I was your friend.”

I was a coward. Should have poisoned him.

“Are you even listening to me?”

Isidora had stopped placing the desserts on the tray, an annoyed glare on her face. Guilt climbed up my throat. “I’m sorry.”

She walked to the door. “I’ll forgive you.” I smiled, relieved. “If you put in a good word to his brothers.”

I stared at her. “They’re the Mafia.”

“Your point being?”

I shook my head. “Whatever.”

“Also, I want to know about the sex.”

“What sex?”

“You, him. Under the sheets.”

“No—”

She shook her head. “Agreed. You’ll never make it to a bed.”

I scoffed. “They’ll have a snowstorm in Marbella before I sleep with that gilipollas.”

She giggled. “I’m sure you meant whatever you said as an insult, but if you talk to him like that, you’ll end up in trouble.” She sighed dramatically. “You’re so lucky. Your accent alone will get you fucked.” Yes, because she didn’t have looks and charm greeting her each morning in the mirror besides her Italian accent. “Besides, hate sex, darling. It’ll be worth the risk of global warming.”

She waltzed out the door. I stared at it until it stopped swinging. I could have been her. So carefree. Simple goals in life. If Papá had been alive, I would have been her.

A few minutes later, the sound of her footsteps reached me. I prepared for the next report. Putting myself behind the counter and showing a fake nonchalance I was far from feeling, I cleared the dirty dishes.

The door swung open. “Global warming isn’t a jo—” My words faded into the same vacuum that sucked at my breath. Isidora stood at the door. Empty plates and tension in the air. Behind her was the cold wall of Niccolò Martello. It may not have been a joke. But it was happening in real time. The man was furious.

She rushed to the counter and dropped her plate.

“I di—”

“Get out.”

She took one look at him. Then proved to me that her friendship had limits. The air in the kitchen should have cooled by the wind she left in her hurry to get the hell out.

I bristled. He just had to break everything for me. My family, and now my only friendship. I was done with him. Dropping the cutlery in my hands into the sink with a loud clatter, I stalked out to the storeroom and locked myself in it. Backing away from the door, I gripped the low counter and took deep breaths. I liked this room. No windows. Just brick walls painted in terracotta and raw wooden cabinets. It even smelled like home with the spices and saffron I had spilled. I should probably clean that up instead of hovering in a corner, furious with my boss. I just wanted a few minutes to collect myself. I traced the knife digging into my skin in my skirt pocket. It felt heavy, a weight in my linen skirt. Not for long. When his guests left, I was so fucking killing him.

The door burst open.

Might do it sooner.

Framed against it, the devil who’d come up from hell.

“You’re mad.”