Page 33 of The Mobster's Nanny

“For the next few days, the Italians will be busy trying to figure out who betrayed them. It’s your best chance to catch them off guard before they catch you.”

Giovanni pauses as if to give me time to process it. From the corner of my eye, I see him turning to me, and I look up to meet his eyes. They’re dark and cold with anger, but his gaze is distant, deep in thought, making me feel like his anger isn’t directed at me.

“Remember why you’re doing this,” he says after a moment, his voice low and grim. “Remember what the Messinas did to your brother. You have to make them pay for it. They aren’t the kings they think they are.”

Is he still talking to me? Because it sounds weirdly personal—but no matter what he’s thinking about, Giovanni is right. I can’t hide from the Messinas forever. They’ll figure out that I’m a spy sooner or later, so I have to hurry up and kill Matteo before he finds out the truth.

And wouldn’t it be easy to slash his throat this very night, when he’s fast asleep next to me?

I soon find myself looking at Matteo’s profile in the moonlight coming through the curtains, and gripping the knife tightly in my hand—but I can’t move. I sit there, in my bed, completely frozen for god knows how long before I slowly put the knife back under my pillow, only now seeing that my fingers are shaking.

The idea of having my hands covered in his blood, his last breath escaping him with a wheeze, his wide eyes staring at me before he loses every last bit of strength to hold them open—I used to dream about being the last person he sees. But now, just thinking about it makes me sick. Digging the knife into his body is not the same as poisoning him. It’s so…personal. How can I look Romeo in the eyes after that?

It would turn me into another person, and I don’t know if I’m ready to become that version of myself.

I wake up in the morning with the same questions, my mind swirling in complete chaos, and only when Matteo holds me against the bed, thrusting deep and slow and murmuring praise into my ear, do I manage to turn off my thoughts. But as soon as he leaves, I can’t help but check the knife under my pillow and my chest immediately tightens so hard that it hurts. What should I do?What should I do?

The question follows me everywhere, the idea of killing Matteo omnipresent, and every night I feel the handle of the knife under my pillow only to let it go with a rush of weakness. The image of Matteo choking on his blood and trying to hold onto my neck doesn’t bring me any satisfaction, only a deep and primal sense of dread that follows me from my nightmares.

“You look upset,” Romeo says a couple of days later, holding onto my hand while I’m tucking him into bed. He’s frowning, studying my face, and I immediately try to smile at him. But I guess it doesn’t look as happy as I want it to because it doesn’t do anything to the look of concern in his eyes.

“I’m alright, I promise.” I run a hand over his hair and give him a smile, maybe not as wide but more genuine. “Don’t think about it, okay? You have to have a lot of rest before tomorrow.”

Romeo immediately pouts, looking away from me. “I don’t want any more tests.”

“I know, I know,” I murmur with a soft chuckle, stroking his arm. “But it’s just a part of learning. You’ll nail it, sweetheart, I believe in you.”

At that, Romeo gives me a shy smile and snuggles closer to the edge when I reach to kiss his forehead. My heart is so tight it hurts, and when I finally leave his room I have to pause and lay a hand on my chest. God, I have to get rid of that knife, I can’t do it anymore—I know that I’m not gonna do it. At least, not now.

While I’m in the hallway, I listen to the sounds from Matteo’s office, but it’s all quiet. It’s been a while since we had dinner. Where is he?

But I find him as soon as I get down to the first floor. Matteo is in the kitchen, sitting by the bar table with a glass of whiskey in front of him. Is he drinking? I frown, slowly walking closer. I think I’ve seen him drinking maybe three or four times since I moved here, and it’s never like this. Quietly, on his own, in the kitchen. Did something happen?

Shit. My heart drops. Is it because of the bust?

“Hey,” I call him gently, placing my hand on his shoulder as I take a seat next to him. Matteo glances at me with a small smile, and I feel the weight of his silence in the air. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, don’t worry.” He chuckles and takes another sip from his glass, looking down at it with a distant expression. I don’t say anything for a moment, encouraging him to tell me more, and Matteo finally shrugs and adds, “It’s the anniversary of my wife’s death.”

Oh. I blink and look away. Oh shit. That’s awkward.

What am I supposed to do in this situation? Should I leave? I’m not sure if he wants my presence right now—but it takes me one glance at Matteo to know that I can’t leave him alone now. He doesn’t look drunk, but his movements are a little slow, the look in his eyes is unfocused, and the crease between his eyebrows doesn’t seem to go away.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask quietly, squeezing his shoulder a little tighter before pulling my hand away—in case he asks me to leave. “You know, I’m always here for you.”

“I know.” Matteo smiles a little and, after a glance my way, reaches out to hold my hand lying on the counter. “Thank you, Liss.”

I only smile, not knowing what to say and just allowing him to gather his thoughts in silence. For a long moment, Matteo stares blankly at our hands, moving his jaw around unspoken words, until they finally break through with a bitter chuckle.

“I just—I’m still so mad at them, you know? Those fucking Mexicans. They wanted to kill Cassio, I understand that, but everyone else in the restaurant was innocent. Other patrons, waiters, his bodyguards…and Sienna. She wasn’t their enemy—but they killed her too. They killed all of them just for their own fucking pleasure.”

The more he talks, the more agitated he gets, and by the end of his little speech, Matteo’s grip on my hand is so strong it hurts a little—but I barely notice it. I stare at him, listening to every word with wide eyes, and only when Matteo stops to take a big gulp from his glass do I turn away and blink out of my stupor. What is he talking about? How could the Escarras kill his wife?

I mean…they’re the good guys, right?

“You probably don’t understand a single thing that I’m saying,” Matteo suddenly says with a joyless smile in his voice, and his fingers stroke my hand. “I’m glad you don’t. I don’t want you to be a part of it.”

I swallow, not looking at him. Fortunately or not, it’s too late.

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