Page 13 of Mistletoe in the Mafia

“Oh, so now you choose to be suspicious?” I ask, while preparing the cheese sauce.

“It’s not suspicion. I’m just curious. I don’t know if it was a coincidence or fate.”

My eyes meet hers with a frown. “Why does it have to be either? I don’t believe in coincidences or fate. How about things just happen and there’s no reason or method to it?”

“Isn’t that what a coincidence is?”

“No, coincidences suggest a link between two events or two things that have no connection to each other but it happens anyway. The existence of a coincidence itself gives a particular reason to a situation.”

She pauses, taking that in. “I think my frontal lobe just developed. Wow, that’s deep.”

My lips twitch.

“Damn, that was almost a smile,” she says gently, and I realize she’s studying me.

My jaw tightens and I look away from her, suddenly remembering why I don’t like having people in my space. Why I don’t like people, period.

“Why don’t you like knives?” I ask abruptly.

She falls still, then says under her breath, “What?”

“Knives. Earlier in the alleyway, you freaked out when that bastard brought out a knife.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I didn’t freak out. He cut me and I passed out because of the blood. I’m squeamish.”

This time, I really do let the corners of my lips tip up. I don’t think anyone’s ever tried to gaslight me before. It’s definitely intriguing.

She’s such a dirty little liar. It makes me want to punish the fuck out of her.

CHAPTER 4

Madelyn

If someone had told me earlier today that I’d be in the home of a complete stranger having mac and cheese, I would have laughed in their face. I don’t know why I would have, though, because I know first-hand how dramatic my life can get at times.

Things spiral out of control fast whenever I’m around. For example, being jumped in an alleyway. I truly believe that if weapons hadn’t come out during that fight, I would have been fine. But they did, and I froze, and while I hate that it happened, I’m finding it a little hard to be too annoyed at the situation.

Especially not when the end results are sitting right across from me. Dominic. Or at least that’s what he said his name was. For all I know, that could have been a lie. I have trust issues—ninety percent of the time, a person’s being dishonest with you. That’s just how people are. They lie, they deceive, and they get away with it, because mind readers don’t exist.

Instead, I’ve had to learn and adapt. Thankfully, despite not being able to mind-read, it’s been pretty easy to figure most people out. Their actions, their motivations.

Right now, with Dominic, I’m getting, nothing. Nada, zilch. The man is a brick wall. Robot is more like it. He doesn’t speakunless absolutely necessary and he’s expressionless most of the time. I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody so closed off. It should make me antsy. Everything about this entire situation should worry me, but I’m just finding it hard to let it.

I realize I’ve been staring at him for too long when he looks up from his phone and arches an eyebrow. My heart thuds in my chest and I quickly look away, embarrassed at being caught. He probably gets this all the time. Women acting foolish around him. And I honestly can’t say I blame them.

Not when he looks the way he does. His face is sharp, angular—the type of face that demands undivided attention. His entire demeanor drips with ease. The cold, blank type, the one that projects to the entire world to fuck off. It doesn’t help that his eyes are a slate gray color, impossible to read.

He’s wearing tailored black trousers and a crisp blue shirt with shiny black cuff. His dirty blonde hair is styled with not a single strand out of place. And his presence is stifling. The man looks straight out of a nightmare. Or a dream. It all depends on perspective, I guess.

“Are you done?” he asks, gesturing at the plate in my hand that has not a single morsel of food in it.

What? I was really hungry, and I’m pretty sure that was the best mac and cheese I’ve ever tasted. Not only is he built like a god, but he also cooks. This world is so unfair.

I nod and he takes my plate from me, stacking it with his and heading back into the kitchen. He finished his meal a couple minutes before me.

I quickly follow him, my bare feet gliding across the floors of his house. It’s more of an apartment, and when I looked outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, I caught glimpse of the night sky and the city’s skyline. We’re pretty high up, I’m guessing maybe a penthouse?

His kitchen is just as large as every single room in his house. The place screams luxury—marble countertops, gleaming appliances—but it’s cold. Impersonal. Like him.

---