Page 5 of Mabilia

“You call, I’ll always come, Mabilia.” He leans down and kisses the top of my head, and I snuggle against his chest and close my eyes. I never feel safer than when I’m in my Papa’s arms.

Chapter Four

I’ve been run off my feet all fucking night. I don’t remember this bar being so damn busy when my grandfather was the one in charge. I had no clue the old man was leaving it to me until two weeks ago…after he diedand I got a call from the estate lawyer. I was surprised. And to be honest, I have no intention of holding on to it, but I have to keep turning a profit if I have any hopes of selling the joint.

I don’t need the responsibility of owning a business. I’m good at what I do. I just don’t do it legally, because there’s far more money to be made in illegal gambling. Cards. Poker, to be exact. I’m fucking good at it. Two game nights a month will bring in close to one mil in cash.

The problem with cash is that Uncle Sam asks too many questions, especially if I were to deposit any of it into a bank. It takes creative accounting to get around that. And the bar, well, it might just be worth keeping for that reason alone. Money laundering is much easier when you have a business to “launder” it with.

“I heard that Valentino-Petrov princess did it,” one of the guys sitting at the bar says, and I instantly tune in to the conversation he’s having with his friend.

“No way a princess could do that. Three of them?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. They don’t fuck around when it comes to teaching the offspring in those families. Mix Russian and Italian blood together and you’ve got yourself a nuclear fucking weapon. Those Ukrainian bastards should have known better than to go after the girl.”

I continue wiping over the bar, in the same spot, as I listen. Mabilia was attacked. She left my apartment alone and was fucking attacked. What the fuck was I thinking, letting her walk the streets alone?

Fuck. I pull out my phone and open Instagram. It doesn’t take long for me to find her account. Her last post was this morning, a picture of her legs. The caption reads:one foot in front of the other.

I continue scrolling her feed until I find a photo of her in a school uniform. She’s with another girl. New York Prep. Of course she goes to that preppy, rich kid school. “Hey, Denny, you good if I take off for a minute?” I ask, throwing the towel onto the bar top.

“Would it make a difference if I say no?” Denny replies.

“Nope.” I walk out of the bar. I don’t know why I need to see her. I just want to make sure she’s okay. That’s it. I feel responsible. I shouldn’t have let her leave alone. Who the fuck lets an eighteen-year-old girl walk out of their apartment alone at night?

Me. I’m a fucking idiot. I should have come up with something to tell her. Stretch the truth about how I make my money. I’m not a liar, though. I’m many things, but a liar ain’t one of them.

I may not be a liar. But I feel like a fucking perv, sitting in front of a school while skimming Mabilia’s Instagram. I scroll back up and click on the icon to send her a message.

Me:

I’m out front of your school. I need to see you.

I don’t expect her to respond. There’s only an hour until the bell rings. I can wait, hope to catch her walking out. But then my phone buzzes.

Mabilia:

Who is this?

Me:

It’s Insta, babe. I know you can see who it is.

Mabilia:

Why are you at my school?

Me:

I want to see you.

Mabilia:

Why?

I groan as I run a hand through my hair.Why the fuck is she so aggravating?

Me:

---