Page 106 of My Mafia Queen

After musing over what to do, I pick up my hoodie and pull it over my shirt to conceal my gun before moving steadily toward my place.

First, I check the place for suspicious cars.

I can’t tell whether Stella is inside with him. He usually picks her up, so her car is almost never there.

Mustering enough courage to face my father, I head straight to the entrance and push through the door as if I walked out of this place this morning.

The old radio on the kitchen counter plays an old country song at low volume while the house smells like burned food and, from the look of things, my father’s home alone.

If he is home indeed.

His car is in the driveway, so he must be here too. Maybe he’s in the back with Stella.

I peer up the stairs. No sound comes from up there.

“Is anyone home?” I ask, my voice tinged with ice and apprehension.

No answer.

I go to the windows and peek outside. He’s not at the neighbor’s place, is he? What would he do there anyway?

A noise comes from the basement, and my heart tumbles in my chest.

Shit.

‘Stay calm. Nothing will happen.’A little voice murmurs in my head.

I just need to keep my cool––I tell myself.

Getting into my character, I spin around and go to the kitchen as if I have no idea whether he’s in the house or not.

I put a pan onto the stove and pull out a carton of eggs from the fridge. I’m not hungry, but it keeps me busy, helping me with my ploy.

“Where were you?” a voice rumbles from the doorway while I crack the eggs and whisk them in a bowl.

I shoot him a side-eyed glance.

He has his shoulder pressed to the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest.

A plaid shirt stretches across his torso while his jeans are stained from engine oil.

“Hungry?” I ask.

My father looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.

He’s not used to seeing me so calm in his presence.

I’m usually terrified and for a good reason. You never know when he goes off for no reason, and vicious words pour out of his mouth.

Long lines cross his face, and his eyes are shot.

They always are, whether he’s drunk or not.

His lips are usually curled into a rictus, yet now they’re pressed together, and a muscle pulses in his jaw.

I drizzle oil in the heated pan and pour the mix––whisked eggs, a teaspoon of water, and salt and pepper––into the pan.

I let it cook, searching for a rubber spatula in the drawer.

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