Page 32 of Mistletoe in the Mafia

Armed with a donut in one hand and a cup of coffee in another, I start walking towards my sanctuary. But of course, I have to run into the devil himself on the way. I’m about to start scowling. Then I remember my mantra.

“Is that supposed to be breakfast?” he questions, eyeing my hands.

The man has a weird obsession with my meals.

“Good morning, Dominic,” I say brightly in reply. “Did you have a good night?”

His brows furrow. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

“Cut the shit. What’s up with the complete one-eighty attitude?”

He has such a way with words. It makes me want to slap him half the time.

“I’m trying to be friendly. Like you said, I can’t get rid of you. I figured we should be friends instead.”

“Friends,” he repeats dryly.

“Yes, friends. On that note, can I call you Dom, instead of Dominic? Friends call each other by nicknames.

“I don’t ascribe to the idea that nicknames are necessary for interpersonal relationships. Or any relationships at all,” he informs me in a bland tone.

I blink, my mouth agape. After a couple of seconds, I manage to shut it.

“I’m still going to call you Dom,” I decide.

“Do whatever you want, Madelyn. But you will not shut me out,” he states, eyes narrowing.

I take a sip of my coffee, my expression innocent. “Who said anything about shutting anybody out? I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I? In fact, I fully believe we can peacefully co-exist as coworkers in this environment.”

“Coworkers, friends, you and your needless labels. What, calling yourself my ‘one-night stand’ isn’t enough for you?”

My eyes widen and I hurriedly look around to make sure no one heard him.

“Announce it to the whole world, why don’t you?” I whisper-shout.

A muscle ticks in his jaw before he exhales. “Come on,” he prompts, turning around.

“Where are we going?”

“Your office. We have to work on something together.”

I don’t argue as we walk over to my office. I take a seat in my chair, placing my donut in a safe place before looking back at him.

“What’s up?”

“You and I are going to solve the case of the missing kids that happened over at Northwestern,” he announces.

My jaw drops. “That case is almost a decade old.”

Is he crazy? Does he have any idea how many people have tried and failed to find those missing kids?

“So you’re familiar with it,” Dominic says with a satisfied nod. “Good.”

“Of course I’m familiar with it,” I mutter.

It happened about two years before I joined the FBI. I remember being a little obsessed with the case, doing anything I could to find out what happened to those kids. In the end, I couldn’t. It still haunts me.

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