Page 100 of Mafia King: Matteo
“It was the martinis. Remind me to stay away from them.”
“Can you dance?”
“Nope,” she says, overly enunciating the ‘p.’
“So, who is she?” Alena asks.
“My sister, but don’t announce it. You’ll meet her next week.”
“Bianca? Here? How did she attend?”
“Those are questions for another day. Are we good, my love?”
“We are.”
“Great, because I didn’t want you to be pissed all night.”
“I wasn’t jealous,” she protests.
I know that her words are a cover, judging by the daggers she shot at me as I interacted with my sister. That was the real story. By the time we made our way around the large dance floor for two songs, my Principessa was ready to go home.
We leave before the event officially ends. Dmitry and Izzy left before us. Gio greets us at the door and scans the road as we walk down many steps into the cold night.
I hold Alena close to me to fend off winter’s chilly wind when I hear a familiar boom and instinctively throw my body over Alena to protect her.
CHAPTER 34
ALENA
The loud noise sounded like a gun went off, and my heart skipped a beat. What was it? I can’t move as Matteo and Gio tower over me protecting me with their bodies. I’m stunned. I had no time to react.
Gio straightens and says, “We’re clear.” Matteo then stands but checks and runs his hands over me as if I’m an apparition.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Backfire of a car,” Gio explains.
“God, damn it. That scared the life right out of me.” I grab my coat closer to me—as if it were a shield. The men rush me down the steps and to the waiting car. I guess they don’t want to tempt fate. It’s late. We’re in the city. We only have Gio. It feels like we are being warned that we are never safe. I’m sure it was a coincidence.
Matteo fawns over me the entire ride home. He’s visibly shaken. His brother’s girlfriend was murdered a day ago. Now, my father might be missing, and the backfire of a car has us all on edge. Is this my future? Is the car’s backfire a bad omen?
I’ve had too much to drink. I can’t wait to get home. I’d be embarrassed if I was sick in the limo. I do not want Matteo to see me puking. It will ruin his perfect vision of me.
When we arrive home, I step into his arms, seeing that I am unsteady. He carries me into our home and up the stairs.
“You don’t have to do this,” I protest.
“Yes, I do. I’ll have to limit your martinis. And mixing liquor is never a good idea.”
“But the stuff you have from Italy is much better.”
“It is,” he replies. We reach our bedroom, and he lowers me to the bed. He takes off my shoes. I hear them hit the floor, and with how much they must have cost, I’m mortified they are in a heap and not placed on a shelf.
He senses my concern.
“The maid will clean the room in the morning.”
“I don’t feel good,” I say, putting a hand to my head.
