Page 22 of Claiming His Mafia Princess

“Please leave me alone. If you won’t tell me what’s going on, just leave me alone.”

“I don’t know what’s going on. I only know what your brother told me.”

“Whatever. I’m tired of being a pawn in this game and not understanding any of it.” She sighs, still keeping her eyes away from me.

My heart aches to pull her close and hold her in my arms.

I step closer, and she turns to glare at me. Fire in her bright green eyes, warning me not to test her. I know I could overpower her easily. I could pull her onto my lap and hold her and she wouldn’t stand a chance against me — but I don’t want to make her angrier — or push her further from me. I have to move with caution.

The only thing I can think of doing is contacting her brother to push him for information.

I turn away from her and leave her in peace on the patio, watching across the garden as small, soft snowflakes dance in the air. The morning light that was here only a few moments ago has faded behind a grey sky.

Her brother is going to have to tell me something. I won’t let him create tension between my wife and me.

I walk into my bedroom, feeling the chill of the air against my skin. I grab one of my turtleneck sweaters and pull it on, shivering.

I can’t believe how quickly the cold creeps in.

I pick up my phone and dial Masaccio.

“Mas, it’s Nevio.”

“Nevio. Is my sister ok?” he sounds worried.

“She’s fine, but pissed off and wants answers.” Hell has no fury like an Italian girl scorned.

“I don’t know what to tell you —”

“Not good enough. I want answers, too.”

I hear a heavy sigh drifting through the line.

“Meet me. In an hour. I’ll explain everything I know but not over the phone. It’s too risky. The Archers Bar on Bree Street in town. One hour.”

“I’ll be there.”

Town is busy despite the cold weather and thin layer of ice on the pavements. It’s the holiday season and people want to shop. There are smells of cinnamon latte and chai tea drifting in the air. And a Santa on every other corner.

I push the door of the bar open and a wall of hot air slams against my body, along with the assault of holiday music. I don’t know why they insist on playing this music in all public spaces. I get it. It’s Christmas, but can we listen to something else?

I close the door behind me and feel claustrophobic. I Don’t want to take off my black trench coat, but it’s so fucking hot in here. Why do they always pump the heating so high? It’s unnecessary. People are walking around the bar in tee-shirts, playing pool, drinking cold beers. The temperature contrast between indoors and outdoors is astounding.

I shrug the trench coat off and drape it over the back of my chair, sitting facing the door, still overheating in the turtleneck jersey, but not a fuck am I going to take that off and have everyone staring at me in a matter of minutes.

Self-consciously, I run my hand across my cheek, down my neck, then pull the turtleneck higher to cover my devil’s mark.

The barman walks over to where I’m sitting.

“What are you having?”

I look around the place. It’s not even lunch yet.

Whatever.

“Whisky, on the rocks.”

He nods and walks away.

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