Page 120 of My Mafia Queen

I walk around the bed and sit on it, peering at the view.

It’s not contentious.

It’s complicated.

And it’s not that we needed to be here to talk about it.

We could’ve talked about it in Las Vegas.

We’re here because we need to make up our minds.

Or maybe he wants to make up his mind.

The thought dampens my enthusiasm a little.

Still, the breeze makes the leaves rustle and brings the sweet smell of smoke and ripe grapes inside the house, and I suddenly no longer want to think about it.

This is too beautiful to spoil it with my dark thoughts.

24

CARMINA

I weara black dress and my hair down my back.

Dozens of lit candles illuminate the dining room, and opera music plays in the house, setting the mood.

The table is set for us, yet he’s not here, and other than the two of us, no one is supposed to eat here.

I can only imagine he’s at the guesthouse talking to his men. Or maybe in the kitchen, chatting with Maria.

What do I know?

Maybe he’s made the trip back to the village and has some business to take care of.

Whatever it is, it allows me to walk out and step onto the terrace. Garlands of lights adorn the balustrade, and despite the exchange of tense words two hours ago, the house looks like we’re celebrating something, whatever that may be.

I return, take a seat, and look around the table.

I spot the warm-from-the-oven dinner rolls, grab one, break off a piece of bread, and dip it into olive oil before popping it into my mouth.

It tastes delicious.

I continue doing that before Maria brings bowls of soup to the table.

“Ribollitasoup,” she says as I check the hearty food––bowls of veggies and white beans.

She gestures at the olive oil on the table.

“This is for you to put in,” she says with an accent.

“More olive oil?”

She nods.

“E parmigiano.”

“And parmesan?” I say.

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