Page 87 of My Mafia Queen

I gather he is aware of what is going on.

He’s noticed Vadim’s obsession with me, yet the night unfolds uneventfully with expensive drinks and phony laughter.

At one point, Damaso asks Vadim to join him for a private conversation. He instructs four of his men to guard me with their lives and walks away with the other four.

Two men had gone outside to protect our cars.

Damaso doesn’t trust this place or the people inside.

Frankly, I’m surprised he’s booked a suite in this hotel.

Troubling tension rams through me the second he strides away and vanishes behind a large door.

Speaking of having separation anxiety.

I’m nervous that I’m alone in this unfriendly environment, although technically, I’m not here by myself.

I’m also worried about him.

I’ve lived with him long enough to know how volatile these things are and how everything can go to hell in a second.

I know his life.

And I know mine.

Evil things have something in common. They happen fast and take people by surprise.

Thirty minutes pass and it feels like an hour.

All this time, I haven’t even sipped water or eaten a peanut.

When the door opens, and his men walk out before guarding the door, I know he’s okay, and a sigh of relief falls from my lips.

I know I’m a worrywart.

It’s in my blood to worry about the people that matter to me. And he matters more and more to me with every passing day.

I know we haven’t talked about these things because, on the one hand, it’s too early. And on the other hand, we’ve dismissed them from the get-go.

We’re doing our best to keep our feelings in check, living everything with the suppressed passion of two people fully aware there is an ending to our story.

His eyes come to me the moment he enters the vast room.

Vadim walks by his side, talking, but Damaso’s focus is on me.

Moments later, Salla occupies his seat next to me.

“Everything all right?” he asks under his breath, signaling the server for more drinks.

I nod like the princess that I am and earn a praising smile from him.

“You’re made for this life,” he tosses at me, smiling and sliding his hand to my thigh under the table.

“I could say the same thing about you,” I murmur, my eyes expressing nothing as I stare across the table at no one in particular.

Our drinks arrive, and he starts talking to other people when a bad feeling moves through me.

Someone’s watching me again, and I swivel my head, looking around the room.

---