Page 122 of My Mafia Queen

He lifts it to his mouth and takes a drink, and I watch him, convinced the glass is still warm from my lips under his.

“Why here?” I ask and lift my gaze, fully aware he observes me as much as I observe him.

He swallows and shakes his head.

“No particular reason. I wanted to get away from it all.”

He places his drink down and stares at it vacantly.

“Are we on the run?”

My question pulls him out of his thoughts.

“I’m never on the run.”

He seems relaxed despite the things that happened not long ago. I look at him, concerned, and he comments right away.

“You shouldn’t worry about this.”

“You told me I should worry.”

He shoots me a questioning look.

“You told me you could go at any moment,” I remind him.

His grin fades quickly.

“That still stands true. It’s the life that I live.”

“Which will be your life forever.”

“Most likely,” he admits.

“You want to talk about this?” I murmur.

“You’re very perceptive.”

And disappointed. Having a conversation when we have zero answers can’t do us any good.

I lean back and cross my arms over my chest while his gaze slides down, taking inventory of my neck, my chest, and my hips.

I shift in my seat and cross my legs so he can have a full view of me.

“You sound like you expect to hear some bad things,” he says.

“They can’t be good,” I retort. “You seemed quite tormented this afternoon.”

“I wasn’t.”

I smile.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Okay,” he concedes. “I’ll be frank with you.”

He reaches inside his pocket for a cigarette, yet changes his mind and sets his elbows on the table.

His eyes avoid mine, and his fingers thread through his hair when he talks to me.

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