Page 61 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“Only three men?”

“They rotate perimeter coverage.”

“That statement is deeply unsettling.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I sincerely hope not.”

We fall into step beside each other as we move through the market. The city feels strangely softer in weather like this—muted traffic, steam curling from street vents, string lights reflecting against wet pavement.

A cluster of people spills across the walkway ahead of us, forcing the crowd tighter near the coffee stands. Her shoulder brushes my coat. Then she notices the firearm beneath the wool.

Discreet, but not invisible.

She steps away as the crowd clears, not dramatically. Just enough to remind us both of what I am.

“You hate shopping,” I observe.

“I hate performative shopping.” She picks up a dark blue mug, studying the glaze carefully. “This is different.”

“How?”

“Someone made this.”

I watch her move through the market after that. Wool mittens, paper goods, vintage prints, hand-poured candles—never once looking at labels. Always looking at craftsmanship.

Halfway through the third stall, I realize I’ve stopped checking sightlines.

I’m watching her instead.

The way she runs her fingertips lightly across textures before picking things up properly. The way she tilts her head when she concentrates. The way she unconsciously moves closer whenever crowds thicken around us.

Like some part of her already assumes I’ll make space for her automatically.

The crowd thickens again near the center of the market. When someone brushes too close behind her, I put my hand lightly at the small of her back.

Tamara halts for a moment before her steps continue. I notice too much about the fact that she doesn’t move away from me. We stop near one of the outdoor coffee stands. Tamara wraps both hands around the paper cup after the vendor passes it over.

“You know,” she says, “this is significantly better than what I thought today would be.”

“What did you think today would be?”

“A forced march through luxury retail while someone aggressively suggested handbags at me.”

“That still might happen.”

A look of genuine alarm crossing her face makes me laugh.

Snow drifts lightly around us while people move through the park carrying shopping bags and coffee cups, careless in a way I almost envy. For a few minutes, nobody is shooting at anyone. I’d forgotten what that felt like.

Tamara glances sideways at me over the rim of her cup.

“What?”

“You’re less terrifying outside your apartment.”

“Our apartment.”