Page 14 of Mafia Wars

She trails off, her voice faltering, and her gaze drops to her plate. She doesn’t need to finish for me to understand. Mark. It always comes back to him. My jaw tightens at the thought of him controlling something as simple and basic as what she eats. It’s sick.

“Eat whatever you want,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. I bite back the anger threatening to edge into my tone. Idon’t want her to think I’m mad at her, but the thought of him dictating her life like that makes my blood boil.

Her fork hovers over her plate as she glances up at me, her eyes searching mine for something—permission, maybe, or reassurance. I hold her gaze, willing her to see that I mean it.

She pauses again, her brow furrowing. “Why aren’t you eating?”

For a second, I’m caught off guard by the question. It’s such a simple thing, but the way she asks it—it’s not just about the food. It’s about her need to feel normal, to share this moment with someone.

I smile, the corners of my mouth lifting, and reach for my plate. “You’re right,” I say lightly, piling some of the food onto it. “I should eat.”

Her lips twitch into a small, genuine smile, and something warm unfurls in my chest, spreading through me like a quiet fire. It’s startling, this need to make her happy, to see her smile again.

I take a bite of the sweet and sour chicken, and when I glance back up at her, she’s watching me now, her expression softer than before. For the first time, the tension between us feels less like a barrier and more like a thread—fragile but something I want to hold onto.

We eat in silence for a while, but it doesn’t feel heavy or strained. It’s a strange kind of peace, and I find myself wanting it to last. Wanting her to stay in this moment, where she feels safe enough to eat as much as she wants and doesn’t have to worry about anything else.

If I have anything to say about it, this is how it will always be for her from now on. No one controlling her. No one hurting her. Just freedom.

CHAPTER SEVEN

LUNA

I WAKE TO the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and something else—eggs, maybe bacon. For a moment, I forget where I am. The room is too big, too luxurious for my modest apartment, andthen it hits me. I’m still here, in his house, wrapped in his world. A world that I know I don’t belong to.

The night before, after we finished the Chinese food, he led me to a room that took my breath away. The bed alone looked like it belonged in a palace, draped in soft, white linens with gold accents. The furnishings were rich and so far removed from anything I’d ever experienced.

“You’ll stay here,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “The staff won’t be in tomorrow. I figured you’d want some space.”

That was a relief. The idea of being scrutinized by housekeepers or cooks who might wonder why someone like me was staying in a house like this made my stomach churn. Especially with Sara. I’m sure she has been telling everyone that I left with Cian. The look on her face had told me she had thought I was in trouble; at that moment, so had I.

“Thank you,” I murmur, though gratitude felt inadequate for everything I was processing.

“Some clothes will arrive for you tomorrow,” he added almost casually.

I straightened at that, frowning. “I don’t need that. I can just go back home and grab some things.”

The shift in his demeanor was instant. The warmth in his expression gave way to something darker, colder.

“No,” he said sharply. “It’s best you don’t.”

His tone brooked no argument, and I wasn’t brave enough to push further. But the command lingered with me, unsettling.

Later, as I lay in the enormous bed, trying to calm my thoughts, I saw the missed call on my phone. Becca. A pang of guilt hit me. She must be worried. Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow, I’ll call her back and try to explain…something. Though what, I still wasn’t sure.

Sliding out of the plush bed, I stretch, the silk of the borrowed pajama set cool against my skin. It feels indulgent,wearing something so expensive that isn’t even mine. I pad toward the door and down the hall, the soft sounds of a distant radio murmuring through the house.

The kitchen is bathed in golden morning light, and he’s there, standing at the stove. His broad shoulders are relaxed, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. The sight is disarming—domestic, almost. He glances back at me, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

“Morning,” he says, his voice low and warm.

“Morning,” I reply, feeling awkward and unsure. It’s not like we’re just two regular people sharing breakfast.

He gestures to the counter. “Sit. Coffee?”

I nod, sinking onto one of the barstools. The counter is cold under my fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth he exudes even from across the room. He moves with a casual confidence, pouring me a cup and sliding it in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug. The first sip is heaven, rich and strong, and I let it settle me.

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