Page 30 of Texting My Mafia Savior

Nico:WHAT did you do?

I quickly type.

Me:I rubbed my hand all over my pussy. I was so horny; it’s the quickest I’ve ever had an orgasm. My body is still aching from it.

A couple of minutes pass, then he replies.

Nico:I just exploded, Arria.

Me:Do you regret it?

Nico:I should.

Me:DO you?

There’s another pause, and then his message arrives.

Nico:We should both regret it. You know that. I know that.

It’s not a genuine answer. But he’s not lying, either.

For the rest of the day, we don’t text each other. The time allows us to seriously consider everything that’s happened. Let’s face it. We unbelievably messed things up earlier. He told me he was a killer, and what was my response? To get myself off! That’s not something normal women do, surely. It’s got me questioningmyself in every way. I was right before when I thought it seemed nuts when the moment passed.

I try to keep myself busy with a personal project. As I chat with Lilly on Facetime—relieved to talk about random, regular stuff—I go through old photo albums. My idea is to create something for Mother's or Father’s Day, maybe both, or perhaps a joint Christmas gift for Mom and Dad. I’ll review the albums, pick out the best shots, maybe touch them up, and then compile them into something beautiful.

“I think I’m done with dating,” Lilly says as I flip the pages, going further and further back in time. I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, my phone propped on my side table.

“Oh, yeah?” I say, smiling. It’s not the first time she’s made lofty claims like this.

“What’s even the point? All guys want is one thing… I know I sound like a cliché.”

“No, I’m with you,” I mutter.

“Theoretically—or are you speaking from some new experience you haven’t told me about?” She says, her tone curious.

I give her my usual response—an eye roll of epic proportions. Luckily, the idea of me dating is so alien to her that she doesn’t think to chase it up. It means I don’t have to lie to her. I’m not sure how I’d explain what happened with my uncle. Too much has transpired since the standoff in the club. I don’t even feel like the same Arriana anymore.

“How’s the project going?” she asks.

“Okay. I’ve just reached the photos from before we left for California.”

“Awesome. That’s a cool gift idea.”

“Thanks.”

I flip through the shots of one of my early birthdays. I don’t recognize a lot of the people. Many of them look exactly like the guys I saw in the club, though, when Nico took me to apologize—slicked back hair, leather jackets, gold jewelry. They look like mobsters. There’s no mistaking it.

A gasp escapes me when I spot him. Am I losing my mind? I stand in the foreground, but the photographer didn’t use pull focus so that I can make out everything in the background. Two boys have got their arms around each other, grinning. I don’t recognize one. But the second boy looks exactly like a kid's version of Enzo.

“Is something wrong?” Lilly asks.

I don’t want to let her in on this. She’s got her own life, her own problems.

“Just…” I shake my head. “Lilly, I’m sorry. I have to go. Uh, Dad’s calling me for dinner. I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” I hate lying to her. “Everything’s fine. Really. Speak soon.”

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