Page 65 of Mistletoe in the Mafia

“I tried to help her but he was right there and she was on the ground, and then she was telling me to run as fast as I could. And so I did. I left her alone. I ran despite her screams behind me. I heard a struggle and it was pretty clear she was doing all she could to keep him away from me. To make sure I had enough time to escape. I heard her being murdered and did nothing about it. All I did was save myself,” I say with my head bowed.

Dominic places a hand under my chin, forcing me to look up into his gray eyes.

“Hey, you were twelve, okay? You were a twelve-year-old who just wanted to survive. And you did. I’m sure your mother was happy that you survived. You saved yourself, Madelyn. And then you raised yourself. That’s inspiring. You were brave thatday. You told me you were proud of me for surviving on my own, and I’m saying it back to you right now.”

Pressure grows behind my eyelids at his words. I manage a watery laugh.“Thank you,” I whisper.

“One last thing—your mom… did she have something carved onto her body at all? The bastard that killed her. Did he leave a mark in anyway?”

I shudder at that. That’s a part of the ordeal I try to repress because it makes me feel ill that whoever killed her was sick enough to mark her like that. When I find him, I’ll make him pay. I’ll unleash ten times the pain my mom felt on him.

“Yeah,” I tell Dominic. “He was a serial killer. It’s why I had to go into witness protection. My escape was a fluke. He usually didn’t leave behind any survivors. At the time, he was terrorizing the streets of Chicago and had been doing so for a couple of years. I think my mom and I were his last victims before he went underground and disappeared forever. Most people don’t even remember him anymore, and I think the FBI likes it that way—best to keep one of their biggest failures a secret. This man murdered nearly fifteen people. And he enjoyed it. It’s clear from the sick way he marks his victims. He does it on their wrists, carves a letter there to show that he was responsible.”

“S,” Dominic murmurs darkly. “The letter is S, isn’t it?”

I stare at him in shock. “How do you know about that?”

He falls frighteningly still for a couple of moments.

“Dom, are you okay?” I ask, placing a palm on his jaw.

That seems to snap him out of it. He looks at me for a moment and I see raw pain in his eyes, pain and disbelief. My heart aches at the sight.

“Dominic—”

“I have to go,” he says cutting me off. “I’m so sorry, baby. But I have to leave.” He places a kiss on my forehead. “Thank youfor telling me the truth. I promise I’ll explain everything to you eventually. But for now, I just need to go. Okay?”

A part of me wishes he’d explain everything to me now, but I can see the desperation in his eyes.

“Okay,” I breathe.

He leaves, and I realize I never asked him how long he’d be gone.

CHAPTER 17

Dominic

The need to pummel something into the ground reddens my vision. My fist clenches as I walk through the doors of the Don’s mansion. But I don’t act on my urges or impulses. In fact, I’m calculative to a fault and only take action once I’ve predicted all the possible outcomes of a certain situation. The only exception to that is the infuriating black-haired woman with ocean-green eyes and the propensity to make me forget all my principles.

“Dominic?” my cousin calls.

Heels clack against the floor and blonde hair swishes behind her as she walks toward me. There are lines of worry on her expression, and usually I’d try to get her to relax, especially because I know she’s pregnant, but I can barely get myself under control. And I’ve tried everything, from punching something to trying to find a distraction. Nothing’s worked. It’s like there’s this well inside of me, and every time I think about it, it fills with every emotion slithering through me. The disbelief, anger, pain. It’s all there, threatening to spill over and consume me.

“Hey.” Camila’s touch on my arm is light, tentative. “What’s going on? You’ve never called for a table meeting before. What happened?”

Behind her, I glimpse Adrian leaning against a wall, watching me, his gaze studious.

“Is he here?” I ask instead of answering my cousin’s question. “Did you bring Marco?”

She nods. “Yeah, he’s here. In the meeting room.”

“Good,” I mutter, waving off her concern as I head in.

“You look rough, buddy,” Adrian says in passing greeting.

I barely even glance at him. The Don is standing in front of his table with Raul, a middle-aged man and the last member of the table to be offered the position, standing next to him. He’s a big scary guy with tattoos on his forehead and a permanent scowl, but he’s proven himself to be fiercely loyal to the Cosa Nostra.

The other person in the room is much older than the rest of us—an old man in his late sixties, with thinning brown and white hair and dull black eyes. I admire the survival instincts that have led him to still be alive to this day. He’s the only elder left in the Cosa Nostra. The others are all dead. But Marco thrived on being a slimy fucker who always prioritized himself above all else. Which is something he did right, considering he’s still here.

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