Page 145 of My Mafia Queen

“No,” I go on. “He’s more than my boss, but I can’t tell you more about him.”

She mulls over something.

“I’m happy for you, Car.”

My eyebrows slide up as this is not what I expected to hear.

“Happy? You know nothing about him.”

“I know enough. I don’t need to know more than the fact that he’s doing something for you that no one else has done before. Anyway, he seems to be a real man, not like the other losers.”

I don’t want to go into who the other losers are. I guess she’s talking about my father and Beau Anthony.

“Okay. I’ll let you go now. I need to call Stella,” I say, trying to wrap it up.

“Make sure your father doesn’t get wind of this. Whatever this is, him getting smack in the middle of it won’t help anyone.”

“Yeah… You’re right. I guess I’ll think about it.”

We end our conversation and I ponder whether to call Stella or not. I figure my aunt is right. Even if Stella kept it to herself, my father might catch her talking to me, and he could quickly figure out something was wrong.

So no. It’s better not to call her.

I push to my feet and go to the closet, my phone clutched in my hand.

Frozen, I stare blankly at my duffel bag.

I don’t think I can sneak out of the building without being seen. There’s no way the corridor isn’t surveilled.

They may have trust in me, but no one trusts me that much.

Although they may think I’m not crazy enough to go back. And do what? Yes. What do I plan to do?

I have no idea. I just need to be close to them.

Tina. And Jen.

Damaso.

No one can stop me from getting out if they don’t know it’s me, so I need something to conceal my identity.

I have nothing in the closet, and then an idea pops into my head. I call the concierge and ask for the maid to be sent upstairs.

I also ask them for an estimated time of arrival.

I have ten minutes to change my clothes, shove them into my duffel bag along with my gun, and dig deep into my closet to pull out a new set of clothes that remotely looks like a maid’s uniform.

Once I’m done, I throw a bathrobe over my clothes and dash to the door just as she knocks on it.

“You can start over there,” I say, pointing to the living room. “Thank you.”

The woman picks up the cleaning supplies and enters the room while I pace back to my room, toss my robe into the closet, pick up my bag, and stealthily move toward the exit without making the slightest noise.

Once I get there, I glance into the living room, and making sure she doesn’t see me, I sneak outside.

I use her cart to hide my bag before I tie my hair into a bun at the back of my neck.

Minutes later, I walk past a couple of men in the waiting area next to the elevator and keep going.

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