Page 59 of Shackled By the Mafia Boss

“Where are we headed?” I ask, curiosity piqued.

“It's a surprise,” he says with a mischievous glint in his eye.

The car ride is filled with easy conversation, snippets of our day, and playful banter that lightens my mood.

“ADA Rodriguez was found unconscious this morning.”

“Was he?” Marcus doesn’t seem surprised, but given who he is, I don’t expect him to be. “Where is he?”

“He is in the ICU. Damaged ribs, damaged spinal cord, lost five teeth and who knows what else. We don’t know if he’ll survive but I pray to God he does.”

“Why? He made your life at work hell.”

“He did. Doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.”

Marcus smiles, looking away from the road to steal a glance at me. “You’re too innocent for this world.”

“I wouldn’t be a cop if I was.”

Before I know it, we pull up to a luxurious high-rise building. Marcus escorts me inside, and we step into an elevator that whisks us up to the penthouse.

The moment the doors open, I'm greeted by a stunning view of the city skyline from the expansive windows. Soft music plays in the background, setting a cozy atmosphere.

“You live here?” I ask, peering around and trying to take in the beauty and expensiveness of his home.

“Does it look like I don’t?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s beautiful. I guess the rumors about you being rich aren’t a lie,” I tease.

“This could be your home too one day.”

Butterflies flutter their delicate wings in my stomach. Does that mean he sees me as more than a friend? I’d happily live here any day.

The space is immaculate, with a dining table set for two and the aroma of something delicious wafting from the kitchen.

“I hope you're hungry,” Marcus says, a grin playing on his lips as he takes my handbag and jacket.

“Starving,” I admit with a laugh. “Did you get someone to cook?”

“I made the food myself.”

My jaw drops. “Really? Didn’t you tell me you couldn’t cook? Does the food taste any good?”

“Why not sample it and judge for yourself?”

He leads me to the table where he's prepared a scrumptious meal. As we eat, our conversation flows effortlessly.

There’s a variety of food on the table, but I begin with the beef stew, scooping a spoonful and bringing it to my mouth.

The flavors hit my tastebuds, each of them perfect. “Did you really make this yourself?”

“Does it taste so good that you can’t believe it?”

“It does.” I give him a thumbs up. “It’s delicious. You’re a good chef.”

“Thank you.” He eats from his own plate of stew and nods. “Maybe I could become a professional chef, if I could cook more than you see here.”

We chat over things that don’t make a lot of sense as we eat. Marcus tells me about his family and I tell him about my little sister.

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