Page 158 of My Mafia Queen

I’ve only been to her place a few times, so nothing significant catches my eye.

A few cars are parked in the driveways as I roll past different houses, and a few more are in the street.

They don’t look suspicious. It’s mostly family cars. Old models. Used vehicles.

Like my old car.

Like her ride.

No sports cars or SUVs.

From that perspective, I look suspicious with my big armored car.

I finish my inspection, consider the area safe, and return to Jen’s house.

The first time I drove by, I noticed a dim light in the kitchen.

She must be home, waiting.

I slowly roll to her place and pull to a halt in the street before turning off the engine, cracking the door open, and listening.

The noise of the city echoes in the distance as the sky lights up at the horizon.

I used to love this place. I miss being in school and even working. I never resented my life. It’s just that the people in it weren’t that great.

Sucking in a long breath, I focus on my bag.

I fish out my gun and slide it into my thigh pocket before tugging my hoodie over my head.

I jump out of the SUV with my phone clutched in my hand and the car keys next to the weapon in my pocket.

Silently, I cross the driveway and peer through the window first. The lights are on, and a radio is playing in the kitchen, yet she’s nowhere in sight.

I look around the corner and check the bathroom light. It’s on. She must be in the bathroom, tending to her wounds.

I ponder for a second before moving toward the back exit, sliding my hand under a potted plant and picking up the key.

Moments later, I’m in.

The house is silent and smells like coffee.

“Jen? I’m here.”

No answer.

My ears perk up as I hear a noise, and soon I realize the water is running in the shower.

I was right.

Slightly more confident this time, I walk toward the kitchen.

“Mmm… It smells nice,” I murmur to myself, entering the space and looking at the coffee machine sitting on the counter when a hand comes from behind, wraps around my neck, pulls me back, and my head meets the barrel of a gun.

“Welcome back,” my ex says maliciously.

He drags me toward the middle of the kitchen, and I notice blood on the floor.

“What did you do to her? Let me go,” I bark, fighting his grip.

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