Page 16 of Mafia Wars

I want to argue, but I don’t. Instead, I drain the last of my coffee and finish the bacon, savoring the care someone else has put into making sure I’m fed. Being taken care of like this is something I could get used to, even if it’s all temporary.

When I reach my room, my steps falter at the sight of the bed. Stacks of clothes—more than I could have imagined—are laid out neatly. Sweaters in soft fabrics, trousers that look tailored, and even shoes lined up against the wall. My face burns when my gaze lands on a small black lingerie set nestled among the rest. The delicate lace feels like a mocking whisper of indulgence as I pick it up. My throat tightens.

This is too much.

Still, my fingers trail over the cream sweater and black trousers, and I know they’re exactly my size. It’s surreal, the precision of it all. With a shake of my head, I grab the clothes and head for the shower.

The water races across my skin, a little too hot. It’s a grounding heat, a small punishment for letting myself be swept into this strange, pampered life. As I towel off and glance around the bathroom, another wave of surprise washes over me. A new toothbrush, a hairbrush, creams, and even perfumes are arranged neatly on the counter.

My fingers hesitate over a glass bottle of perfume. I’m tempted to spritz it just to know what kind of scent Cian picked out. Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror, my damp hair clinging to my neck, the cream sweater now snug against my skin.

This isn’t me. This polished woman with expensive clothes and perfectly curated toiletries can’t be me.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, the words bouncing back at me.

But the mirror doesn’t argue. My reflection stares back, almost daring me. Why not? Don’t I deserve a break? After everything—after Mark?

A part of me reasons I can pretend, just for a little while. Pretend this is my life, that I’m someone worthy of all of this—just for now.

I pick up my phone and hesitate. Texting Becca feels like a coward’s move, but I’m not brave enough to call. I type quickly, crafting an excuse that’s barely a lie.

Staying over at Cian’s for a bit. Lots of work to do. Nice to get away from Mark.

I hover over the send button. She’ll have questions. The news hasn’t mentioned Mark’s name, at least not yet. But I can’t think about that right now. My finger presses send before I can second-guess it further.

When I go downstairs, the first thing I notice is Cian’s suit. He looks effortlessly handsome, the crisp cut of the fabric framing his broad shoulders perfectly. He’s snacking on peanuts from a bowl, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he has all the time in the world.

He glances up when he hears my steps. “Ready?”

For a moment, I just stand there, unsure how to respond. Everything feels so surreal—his calm, the luxury surrounding me, the tension simmering in the air between us.

I nod, even though I’m not sure I am. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

CIAN

LUNA SLIDES INTO the passenger seat, her hands trembling as she fumbles with the seatbelt. She seems nervous.

The engine hums to life, and she jumps slightly at the sound. Without a word, I reach across, my hand touches her thigh.

“It’s okay. You have nothing to worry about.”

She nods, her focus on my hand, the warmth of her skin under me has my hand lingering for a moment longer than is actually necessary, I pull back, and shift the gears, and drive off the property. Luna is looking out the window, but I still catch the glow on her cheeks.

The drive to the nursing home isn’t long. It’s one of the private ones, tucked away in the countryside, with the kind of reputation that speaks for itself—top-tier doctors, attentive nurses, and a sense of warmth that doesn’t feel manufactured. I made sure of that personally. My mum’s mother—my nan—deserves nothing less.

Today’s visit is twofold. For one, it’s Thursday, and Thursday means Nan. Always has. But I’m also thinking about Luna. This place could be perfect for her. She’s been searching for work that means something, and this feels like a win-win. At least, that’s my logic. Whether Luna sees it that way? We’re about to find out.

The car rolls to a stop at the gated entrance, and I lean out to sign us in. Beyond the gates, small houses dot the perimeter like a quaint little village, their gardens neat and orderly. The main building looms ahead, where Nan lives. A familiar sight. Comforting, in a way.

When I pull up and kill the engine, I glance at Luna. Her expression is...unreadable. She’s been quiet the entire drive, but now her brow furrows as she looks at the nursing home.

“A nursing home?” she asks, her voice tinged with surprise. Not judgment, but close enough to make me defensive.

“Yeah,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “My nan lives here. I visit her every Thursday.”

Her eyes meet mine, and something shifts. The surprise fades, replaced by something softer, something... unexpected. It’s like she’s seeing me differently, like she’s peeling back another layer. I clear my throat and push open the door before I can analyze it further.

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