Page 72 of Triplets for the Mafia Prince

Istare out the window of our hideout feeling like the world has left me behind. Another day passes without Nic. The house feels bigger, emptier each time he leaves to work on his plans. But when he’s home, he keeps his distance, as do I.It’s a good thing, I tell myself, a preview of our inevitable separation once he kills his father. Better to start detaching now than face the heartbreak later. But my chest aches every time I hear his key in the lock and he returns. We have cursory discussions. I tell him his dinner is warming in the oven. He hands me a package with a fake identity. Then he spends his time working, and I retreat to my room to read or plan my next steps.

The house is warm enough, but I can't shake this chill of isolation. I miss my sisters. I miss having purpose beyond waiting. I’m stuck in a limbo state where I'm neither a prisoner nor truly free. I’d think after days of this, I’d be rid of my schoolgirl crush on Nic, but nope. He haunts my dreams with his sleepy smile or laughing at my jokes.

This life is wearing me down. Each day, I can feel my energy drain. I’m tired, but sleep doesn’t seem to help. Some days, Iwake up feeling sick. I don’t know how much longer I can live like this.

Today, I’m in the kitchen planning our next meals. I realize that Thanksgiving is next week. Back home, my mom is planning the menu. Sofia and Gianna are preparing decorations. Even in our restricted Mafia world, holidays meant family gatherings even if they were stiff and cool.

I dig through the kitchen cabinets, taking inventory of what we have. The house came stocked with basic supplies, but nothing to prepare a holiday feast. I don’t feel much in the holiday spirit, but planning and cooking a Thanksgiving meal will give me something to do, something to fill the emptiness of my life.

I make a list of everything I’ll need and hope that Nic will indulge me. No doubt, he’ll think it’s dumb to have a Thanksgiving meal with only the two of us, especially since we don’t eat together anymore.

I rub my face as my queasiness returns. Is it stress and loneliness? Or maybe I’m getting sick. My whole body feels off.

I get a glass of water and consider whether I’m hungry. But the mere thought of eating makes my stomach roll again. Maybe I’m depressed. Being cooped up in this house day after day would get to anyone.

I try to remember when I last felt normal. The cabin? Those first days here in New Jersey? It's all blurring together. The fatigue has been creeping up gradually. At first, it was just afternoon tiredness that I blamed on boredom, but now, it hits me all day long.

I hear Nic's key in the lock and straighten my clothes, pushing down the queasiness. I hear him enter and stride to the area he uses as an office.

I grab my grocery list and leave the kitchen.

“It’s Thanksgiving next week,” I say to his back as he bends over whatever he’s doing.

“Is it?”

"I made a list. Nothing fancy, just some basics for a nice meal.”

Nic doesn't look up from his phone. "We're not celebrating Thanksgiving."

"It wouldn't be a real celebration. Just a nice meal." I hold out my carefully written list. "I thought it might be good to have something normal?—”

"Normal?" He cuts me off with a harsh laugh. "Nothing about this situation is normal, Bella. I'm trying to plan my father's murder and you're worried about turkey and stuffing?"

I hate how dismissive he is of me, like I’m a child getting in the way of grownup work. “I just thought?—"

"That's the problem. You're not thinking." He finally looks at me, his expression cold. “We’re not on holiday here. We're hiding from people who want us dead. I don't have time to play house."

My throat tightens as tears burn behind my eyes. The list drops from my fingers, floating to the floor like a dead leaf. I turn away before he can see me cry, retreating to the kitchen. The tears spill over as I grip the kitchen counter. At the same time, I’m angry. He has to eat, doesn’t he? What harm is it to have a nice turkey meal instead of pasta or chicken? He should be grateful that I make anything for him at all, but especially since I want to make something nice. Jerk!

The anger ends my tears, thankfully. I pull the casserole I’ve made from the oven with half a mind of trashing it. He can make his own damn meals.

The kitchen doorway darkens with Nic's presence. I keep my back turned, pretending to be absorbed in my task.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

I scoop out the casserole and put it on a plate, setting it on the counter with more force than necessary. "It's fine. You're under a lot of pressure."

"That's not an excuse." He takes a step closer. "You were just trying to make things better."

I nod, still not looking at him. The smell of the reheated pasta turns my stomach, but I force myself to appear normal, pulling out silverware from the drawer. "I understand. Really. I was being silly about Thanksgiving." Why am I agreeing with him? I suppose because I don’t see the point of pressing my side.

"No, you weren't." His voice carries genuine regret. "I was being an asshole."

Finally, I turn to face him. His expression is softer than before, apologetic, but it doesn't erase the hurt his words caused.

"You made it very clear how you see things. I won't bother you with any more domestic fantasies."

"Bella—”

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