Page 25 of Texting My Mafia Savior

Nico:I can arrange a meeting tomorrow, around three pm, if you’re not busy.

Me:I fell asleep, but I can do that, yeah. Send me the address. I’ll make my way there.

Nico:Public transport?he texts, not leaving me in suspense this time. I smile at the image of him waiting up all night for my text, growing anxious when I don’t text back, thinking about coming over here, climbing into bed with me, holding me. I’m sick. It’s wrong. I still smile.

Me:Yes.It’ll be fine.

Nico:It’s one of the safest ways to travel, believe it or not.

Translation—Enzo won’t risk doing anything stupid on a bus surrounded by witnesses.

At breakfast, I tell Mom and Dad, “I read a news story about a mugging earlier. It was really scary. You two need to be careful, just in case anything happens. These muggers are clever. They trick people. Apparently, it might be a racket run by the mob.”

Dad narrows his eyes at me. Mom looks at Dad. I see the expression flash quickly across her face. I’m always watching people, mostly imagining a camera in my hand—a byproduct, I think, as I’ve become half decent at reading them.

The look of panic on Mom’s face saysShe knows.

Dotheyknow about the mob? Are they hiding something from me?

“We’ll be careful, sweetheart,” Mom says. “Don’t worry.”

They go back to trying to act normal, but I spotted it. I’m sure I did. Momdefinitelylooked at Dad as if I’d stumbled into a secret. Maybe that’s why Nico didn’t want to tell me everything. Could it involve my parents? God. What am I even thinking? But I can’t ignore my instincts. There was something there. As we eat breakfast, I try to tell myself I imagined it. But I can’t.

This maze of lies is becoming too easy to get lost in.

CHAPTER 12

NICO

Iwait in the public park with Destiny. She absentmindedly braids her hair, looking across at a group of other kids around her age as if they were a different species. Destiny doesn’t come to this area of the city much. She rarely leaves the few blocks of her apartment building. I thought it’d be good to give her a change of scenery, though.

“Is this lady legit?” she asks.

“She’s a skilled photographer,” I reply.

“But she’s not going to like try to be my best friend or talk to me like I’m an idiot. I don’t need a mommy.”

“She won’t push it, Destiny. But you’re only thirteen. It’s okay to be a kid sometimes.”

She looks at me with the bleak hopelessness in her eyes I’ve seen too often. “You’re living in a dreamworld if you think that, man. Those kids, over there, with their nine-to-five moms, knowing where their dinner’s coming from,they’rekids. Not me. I haven’t been a kid for a long time.”

“I disagree,” I tell her. “But I know better than to argue with you. I’ll probably wake up with my house covered in art, eh?”

She laughs, then seems pissed at herself for laughing. “You’re all right, Mr. Barberi.”

“You’re not bad yourself, Destiny. Ah—here’s my…” I hesitate for a beat too long. “Niece.” Arriana is wearing a form-hugging winter jacket. I’m not sure if all her outfits caress her curvy shape or if it’s just me hungrily seeing her shape no matter what she’s wearing. The cold has flushed her cheeks; her hands are in her pockets to keep them warm.

From our texting, it’s clear we’re silently agreeing to let whatever passed between us, well, pass. I called her Arriana. She called me uncle. We don’t need to have a conversation about it to know what we both mean. Considering I’m meeting with the Don later, it’s even more important to maintain my marriage lie. Any slipup could mean death—as if I needed more reasons not to fantasize about Arria’s kissable lips.

“Hey,” Arriana says, offering me a small smile, then turning to Destiny. “Hello. I’m Arria.”

“Destiny.” She stands and offers her hand. “Cool to meet you, I guess.”

“My uncle says you’re interested in photography,” Arria says as they shake hands.

Destiny shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know.”

A lot of these kids have the same combination of characteristics. When you get to know them, they’re self-assured, cocky. But when meeting people, they’re withdrawn, almost as if they assume the person is judging them.

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