Page 100 of My Mafia Queen

For security reasons, they spread around the place while Vito and Gianni walk up the stairs with me.

“Wait here,” I say, stopping in front of the door. “And don’t come in. I know how to take care of myself.”

They tilt their heads in acknowledgment before I push the door open and walk in.

The windows are open, and a gust of wind sweeps in, unsettling the flames in the fireplace.

It’s cold in New York, and the air smells like smoke and memories.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss living here.

This place always gets me, especially when I visit it in the fall.

It reminds me of my childhood and me being a regular teen in a local school.

Those were good times.

I loved summers, but nothing compared to the beginning of a new school year when we, the boys, got reunited and learned how much we’d changed over the summer break.

We wanted to know who got taller or more buffed up before we checked the girls.

It was always a nice surprise if a girl had started to look more grown up and begun to act differently. Tease us and play with us a little.

We had fun.

I slide the door closed behind me and stride to the windows. The backyard is packed with guests.

It’s a nice place, and many guests have brought their wives or girlfriends with them.

I thought about bringing Carmina, too, but we’re not officially a couple, and I’m not sure I want the family to know about her.

Besides that, uncertainty surrounds this meeting as anything could happen.

Footsteps trail to the door outside. Words are exchanged before the door opens.

My uncle, a man in his sixties, enters the room. He’s short and lean and wears a light gray suit.

He also has an old-style mustache and salt–and–pepper hair.

The clunky ring on his finger and his antique tie pin catch the chandelier light.

He locks my eyes briefly before dimming the lights and shutting the door smoothly.

I observe him in silence while he moves to the bar and pours himself a drink.

“You want something to drink?” he asks.

“No. I’m good.”

So far, I don’t have the slightest idea why I’m here.

He doesn’t send me an invitation every time he throws a party, so this is not about that.

He moves to one of the leather armchairs and sets his drink on the coffee table.

“Take a seat,” he says, pedantically tugging at his pressed pants above the knee so he doesn’t wrinkle them before sliding into his seat.

“I’m good.”

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