Page 12 of Mafia Wars

She probably thinks I’m no better than him—that I want to control her, cage her like some possession. The idea churns in my stomach, sour and wrong. If she were mine—and God, how badly I wish she were—I’d never hurt her. Never make her feel small or powerless.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. “Look,” I say, keeping my voice low, “I’m not trying to control you. I just… I need to keep you safe.”

“Why?” she whispers, her voice so soft it barely registers. Her eyes meet mine, and there’s a flicker of vulnerability there, like she’s searching for a reason to trust me. “Why do you care?”

Because I can’t stop. Because the thought of you in pain is enough to make my chest feel like it’s caving in. But I can’t say any of that—not yet.

“Because you're a part of my world now,” I say instead. “And that makes it my problem.”

Her gaze lingers on mine, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I think she’s going to push back, argue. But then she nods, the motion slow and reluctant.

I lean back into the couch, but the tension in the room doesn’t ease.

“So…what now?” she asks, her voice cutting through the quiet.

It’s a good question—one I don’t have an answer to. I glance at her again, taking in the way she’s curled up, her shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink into herself.

I don’t want her to feel small. Not here. Not with me.

“You hungry?” I ask, pushing myself to my feet.

She blinks, caught off guard. “You cook?”

I smirk, the corner of my mouth quirking up. “I didn’t say that. But I can order takeout like a pro.”

Her laugh is soft but real, and it cuts through the tension like a lifeline. “Takeout it is,” she says, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

As I grab my phone, it buzzes in my hand. My father’s name flashes on the screen, and the brief moment of levity evaporates. I already know what’s coming.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, stepping into the hallway before answering.

“Yeah?”

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice is a growl, low and dangerous, like a predator stalking its prey. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“He was hurting someone,” I reply evenly, my grip tightening around the phone.

“That someone doesn’t matter!” he snaps. “What matters is the fallout! You just shot the son of a man we’ve been working with for years. Do you understand the mess you’ve made?”

My jaw tightens. “I don’t care. He deserved it.”

“And if he retaliates? If this starts a war?”

“Then it starts a war,” I say coldly. “I’m not apologizing for protecting her.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and suffocating. Then he asks, “And who exactly is she?”

I glance toward the living room door. I can still see her in my mind—curled up on the couch, clutching the blanket like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

“She’s my girlfriend,” I lie, the words slipping out before I can stop them. The truth would sound ridiculous even to me.

My father exhales sharply, his disdain cutting through the line. “Since when do you care about anyone but yourself?”

The words hit harder than I want to admit, but I keep my voice steady. “Since now.”

His silence is louder than his anger. “Fix this, son. Or I will.”

The line goes dead, but the weight of his threat lingers. Fix this. As if it’s that simple.

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