Page 92 of Mafia Don's Secret Twins

When we get to the terrace, I can see the Russian and his creepy friend doing what I can only think are some kind of fucked-up Soviet calisthenics. Johnny runs up behind me and stares at the sight.

"Bro. Are they like training to be the bad guys in Top Gun?"

"I think they're trying to be impressive," I say with a look up at where Marisol is sitting under an umbrella.

God, she looks so fuckin' good. Her hair is curling in the humidity, a riot of curls that I want to run my fingers through, just to feel them.

"Your girl clearly doesn't give a shit if they're halfway through the Russian gymnastic training program. But you know who does?"

I look over at where he's staring.

"Fuck me," I mutter.

Moretti has his eyes glued to us like a goddamn bird dog.

"Any particular reason why the scariest assassin in the world is looking at you like you're in the sights of his scope?"

I don't answer.

There's no way Moretti knows about me and Marisol in the pool yesterday. For one, if he did, she wouldn't be out here on this patio.

For another thing, if he knew, I'd already be dead.

Still, he clearly heavily suspects something, and he's watching me with those weird, flat eyes.

I fuckin' hate that guy.

"Heads up. Big guy on deck," Johnny whispers.

We walk closer, trying to look casual. Benicio Souza enters the terrace, his pug-faced security chief behind him. Moretti's eyes flick to the security chief, and when the injured man sees him, he adjusts his hand, which looks damn uncomfortable wrapped in a mummy bandage.

Interesting.

Clearly, I'm not the only person that Moretti has dark thoughts about. However, given that mine are because of Marisol, I'm curious what beef he has with the security chief.

And whether or not I can use it to my advantage.

"Well. How appropriate that we are all gathered here today," Souza beams like we're all his fuckin' children. "I was just going to call for you, because I have your next challenge.Please, come, join me," he smiles, gesturing to some chairs that the staff are bringing out to the terrace.

Exchanging a look with Johnny, we walk over. The Russian puts his shirt back on, which is a fuckin’ blessing for all of us.

Nobody wants to see that shit.

“Sit, sit,” Benicio croons. It’s fuckin’ creepy how he’s acting right now. He’s got it into his head that he’s like… some kind of benevolent grandfather.

Not a sadistic, murder-minded cartel leader.

We sit in the chairs. I’m on the end, then Johnny, then the Russian, then the Romanian. The other contestants, it seems, have backed the fuck out.

Good.

From where I’m sitting, I can see Marisol and Moretti out of the corner of my eye. Marisol continues to read her book, which makes my heart sing. She’s clearly doing her best to make it seem like she’s stayin’ out of all this, and like she doesn’t care who is here, what the outcome is, or just generally what the fuck is going on.

Keep ‘em guessin’, baby girl.

Benicio claps his hands. “Wonderful. Now that we’re assembled, Paulo will go get the appropriate and necessary elements of this challenge.”

The fuck?

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