Page 3 of Mafia Wars

There’s a pause, then a loud buzz as the gates swing open. I step through, my sneakers crunching against the gravel driveway as I make my way toward the house. The front door is twice my height, dark wood with an intricate brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head. Before I can knock, it swings open.

A woman in her forties stands on the other side, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, taking in my cheap, secondhand clothes and scuffed shoes.

“You’re late,” she says curtly, stepping aside to let me in.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, but she’s already walking away, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

The foyer is even more overwhelming than the outside—high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and a sweeping staircase that looks like something out of a movie. I feel like I’ve stepped into another world, one where I don’t belong.

“This way,” the woman says, leading me down a long hallway lined with dark wood paneling and expensive-looking artwork. “You’ll start on the ground floor; the library and the main living room need a deep clean. All supplies are in the supply cupboard, three doors down to your left. Stay out of the main office and the basement. And whatever you hear, whatever you see—” She stops and turns to face me, her eyes narrowing. “You didn’t.”

I nod quickly, my palms sweating.

“Good,” she says, handing me a set of keys. “These are for the supply cabinet; if anything goes missing, I know who to blame.”My fingers curl around the keys, but I have this overwhelming urge to throw them back. “Don’t make me regret this.”

I head to the cupboard, my footsteps echoing faintly in the empty hallway. Pulling open the door, I grab the cleaning supplies—a caddy filled with sprays, cloths, and a new feather duster. With everything in hand, I make my way back to the library.

The moment I step inside, I freeze. The sight before me steals my breath. Rows upon rows of books stretch endlessly, their spines gleaming under the golden light streaming through the high windows. Dust dances in the air like tiny stars, and for a moment, all I can do is stand there, staring in awe. A noise down the hall has me quickly closing my mouth and getting to work.

As I start my first task—dusting the shelves in one of the guest rooms—I can’t help but feel like I’m being watched. The house is too quiet, the kind of silence that makes your ears strain for the faintest sound. I try to focus on the work, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the window, but my mind drifts.

This is better, I tell myself. Better than being at home, waiting for Mark to come back. Better than tiptoeing around him, trying not to set him off.

But as I hear the low murmur of voices down the hall—deep, commanding tones that send a shiver down my spine— I fear I might have made a mistake.

One of them cuts through the rest—a voice so strong and deep it practically rolls across my skin. It’s the kind of voice that could send shivers down your spine, equal parts intimidating and mesmerizing. I’m not sure which it’s doing to me right now.

Before I realize it, I’m moving toward the door, drawn in by the rumble of his tone. I stop just shy of the threshold, listening, my pulse quickening as the voice grows closer. Then, it stops, and the sound of heavy footsteps fills the hallway. My heart leaps as the footsteps slow, and a massive figure passes the doorway.

I duck my head, instinctively trying to make myself smaller, but it’s futile. The man pauses, and to my disbelief, he steps back, filling the doorway entirely. I look up—then up again. He’s a giant, towering close to seven feet tall. His dark brown eyes lock onto mine, so deep they’re nearly black, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

"Who are you?" His dark eyes narrow, suspicion darkening his already intimidating features.

"Luna." My voice comes out so high-pitched it practically squeaks. Mortified, I wave the duster like a ridiculous little flag. "The new cleaner." Oh God, I sound so dumb.

He doesn’t say a word at first, just lets his gaze rake over me, from the messy bun on my head to my scruffy shoes. My skin prickles under his scrutiny.

"Have you been eavesdropping?" His voice drops an octave, and my stomach twists. I pale, shaking my head so fast it’s a wonder I don’t give myself whiplash.

"No! Of course not!" I stammer, my pulse hammering like a drum.

He takes a step toward me, closing the distance, and I swear the air in the room gets thinner. "It seems like you were snooping."

I swallow hard. "It’s my first day," I manage weakly, hoping the words will buy me some slack.

He laughs, but it’s not a laugh filled with warmth or humor. No, it’s the kind of laugh that could chill you to the bone, a sound born of a man who’s long forgotten what happiness even feels like. "Let’s not make it your last," he says, smirking as he turns to leave; he winks before disappearing, leaving me frozen in place until my lungs finally remember how to work. I suck in a shaky breath.

It’s only my first day, and I’m already counting down the three shifts I have this week, praying they’ll fly by. But thesecond I leave, something strange happens—I start looking forward to coming back. That’s not normal. Not for me. And definitely not after an encounter like that.

He haunts my thoughts, his giant frame and those dark, all-seeing eyes intruding on my dreams. What’s wrong with me? How can I find someone like that—someone who radiates danger and violence—so...magnetic? It’s like I’m a magnet for the worst kinds of people.

The next three shifts pass in a blur, though not without a few heart-pounding moments. I learn his name from the other cleaner, Sara. Cian. A name as sharp and dangerous as the man himself. And when she confirms what I’d already suspected—that he’s mafia—it should be my cue to steer clear. To stop lingering in the hallways, ears straining for the sound of his voice. To stop hoping for a fleeting glimpse of him.

But I can’t. I can’t stop. Every time I hear his deep, commanding voice in the distance, my pulse spikes. Every shadow that moves has me glancing up, half-hoping, half-dreading that it’s him.

This is bad. So, so bad. And yet, I’m helpless to stop it.

There is definitely something wrong with me.

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