Page 68 of My Mafia Queen

I’ve spotted a nice lounge chair by the window with an ottoman done in a warm oatmeal color.

It must’ve been placed there for a day like this and someone like me. I could sit there, read a book, and stare at the view from time to time.

Yes.

I could go there or simply return to the patio.

For now, I’m still in front of the mirror, checking the embroidered ruffle trimming the top of my dress.

Spaghetti straps highlight my shoulders, while a full skirt moves every time I move.

It’s a nice dress, perfect for this kind of life in which I feel like an impostor.

You wouldn’t say by looking at me. Appearances are misleading, aren’t they?

Or maybe my thoughts are misleading now.

Perhaps this is who I am, and the old me was a botched version of myself.

I like this girl wearing a white dress with her hair a mane of question marks.

My hair doesn't behave this morning, and my lips are still swollen from Damaso Salla’s sweet mistreatment.

What a beautiful memory.

“Where are you going?”

“Ahhh.”

I throw my hands up, my heart jolting to my mouth as I spin at once, breathing way too fast not to get dizzy.

“Oh, my God…” I murmur, smiling, although wryly, as he watches from the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and his cheeks flushed from playing golf and spending time in the sun these past few hours.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

He unfolds his arms and spins around, walking away from me. I follow him at once.

“You’re not the first who said that to me,” he says, in a good mood, and I laugh behind him.

He seems entertained by my chuckle and starts to roll his polo shirt up his torso before glancing at me over his shoulder.

His expression gets erased from my view before he peels his top off and moves briskly to the bathroom.

I peer at his V-shaped muscular back, enthralled with a few drops of sweat that glisten teasingly across his skin.

“What are we doing now?” I ask.

“You first,” he says, heading to the closet and kicking off his shoes.

He spins to me, his hand on his belt.

My eyes dip to his bulge.

“Me what?” I ask, smiling distractedly.

“Where are you going?” he tosses at me.

“Nowhere,” I say, not lifting my gaze. “I was getting ready for you,” I add, obsessed with how his pants fit his hips. “Where are we going?” I murmur, dragging my gaze up and meeting his smiling eyes.

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