Page 13 of Mafia Wars

When I step back into the living room, she’s asleep. Her small frame is curled into the corner of the couch, her head resting on her knees. The blanket has slipped off her shoulders, and her breathing is soft, steady.

For a moment, I just stand there watching her. She looks so fragile, like a doll that’s been tossed aside too many times. But I know better. There’s steel in her. Enough to survive him. Enough to survive this.

I step closer, pulling the blanket back over her shoulders. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, and I sink into the chair across from her, my gaze never leaving her face.

It doesn’t matter what it costs. It doesn’t matter how many enemies I have to face.

No one is hurting her again. Not now. Not ever.

A part of me wants to wake her up right now, shake her out of that fragile sleep, and demand answers about her boyfriend. Who he was. Whether she knew he might be tied to a gang.

The idea twists in my chest. Luna doesn’t strike me as someone who gets tangled up with men like that—men like me. She’s too soft around the edges, too...genuine. But then again, she must have known I was Mafia when she took the job. She walked into my world willingly.

Why?

I rake a hand through my hair, frustration simmering beneath the surface. I need to know more about him. About her.

His body’s probably already in the ground, courtesy of my cleanup crew. Any footage from the area? Erased. My men are combing through his circle now, hunting down anyone close to him. None of them will see tomorrow’s sunrise. As for the witnesses in the café, the Gardai will handle them. They’re in my pocket, and they know better than to dig too deep.

Normally, I’d never be this reckless. I don’t kill without planning every angle, every consequence. But back in that café, the second I saw the fear in her eyes, every shred of control burned to ash. The fucker pulled a knife, and it was over. It might as well have been self-defense.

That’s what I’ll tell myself, anyway.

I glance at her again, curled up on the couch, her breathing soft and steady. The sight of her stirs something in me, but only for a moment.

Leaving her there, I head to the bathroom. The shirt I’m wearing has blood on the cuffs—his blood—and it needs to go. Stripping it off, I step into the shower, letting the scalding water beat down on me. The heat doesn’t wash away the tension, but it dulls the edge enough to think straight.

When I’m done, I toss the shirt into the fireplace in my office. The fabric curls and blackens, the flames licking away the evidence until it’s nothing but ash. Cleaned up and dressed in black pants and a sweater, I feel like myself again—controlled, calculated.

By the time I return to the living room, she’s still asleep, her soft breathing filling the silence. I don’t wake her yet. Instead, I pull out my phone and place an order with the local Chinese restaurant. I don’t know what she likes, so I order everything: sweet and sour chicken, fried rice, spring rolls, noodles, and half the menu for good measure.

When the food arrives, I tell the house staff to leave for the night. The place feels too full, too loud with them here. I keep only the security team on site—they’ll stay out of sight unless I need them.

The dining room feels cavernous once it’s quiet, the polished table gleaming under the soft light. I set up the food, arranging the containers like I’m hosting a dinner party instead of trying to win over a woman I’ve just dragged into my world.

Once it’s all set up, I return upstairs to Luna. She stirs, a soft rustle of movement. I step into the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.

“Come with me,” I say, my voice gentle but firm.

Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, and she blinks up at me. For a moment, she looks confused, vulnerable, like she’s forgotten where she is. Then the memory clicks, and she pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t question. She just nods and rises to her feet, her movements slow and cautious. I step aside, giving her space, and lead the way to the dining room.

When we enter, her eyes widen slightly at the spread of food laid out on the table. The faintest hint of a smile tugs at her lips, and I feel a small flicker of satisfaction.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” I admit, gesturing to the feast. “So I got a little of everything.”

Her gaze flickers to mine, and for the first time since this whole mess started, she doesn’t look afraid. “A little?” she murmurs, her voice tinged with amusement.

“Okay, a lot,” I concede, pulling out a chair for her.

She sits down, her movements still tentative, and I take the seat across from her. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unspoken.

For now, I let it be. There will be time for answers later. Tonight, I just need her to eat. To feel safe. To start trusting me—even if I don’t deserve it yet.

For someone so small, she eats like she hasn’t had a proper meal in days. And I can’t stop watching her. Every movement, every bite—it’s hypnotic. The way she tilts her head slightly when she’s deciding what to try next, or how her lips curve ever so slightly in satisfaction when she finds something she likes. She’s mesmerizing, and I know I should stop staring, but I can’t.

“I could never eat this kind of food when…”

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