Even as anxious and confused as I am, I can still notice how his presence commands the room.
A faint sensation of unease gnaws at my awareness when I tilt my gaze to Sylvia and realize she’s been watching him and me.
My infatuation with him has hardly been a secret, mostly because I made an ass of myself back in New York and behaved in such a way that they tasked Nona with watching me around the clock.
But if I were to take a hard look at what they truly know about my crush on the Irish mobster, I’d say they still don’t know whether my feelings are real or it’s just a ploy to make everyone’s life miserable.
No matter how convincing I am, no one believes me one hundred percent.
They know I’m in constant flux, permanently evolving, shifting, plotting, rebelling, and looking for the next thing to satiate my thirst for drama.
They can’t tell how far I’d be willing to go, and can’t anticipate my reactions, which is proven by the variety of men sitting around the table.
The young mafia bosses.
The more established ones.
The handsome ones.
The ugly ones.
I keep them guessing as much as they keep me guessing, as I’m trying to prolong the freedom I still have, hopefully, before they round me up and kick me out.
My eyes move over a couple of blueberries that have fallen off a delicious roll of sponge cake wrapped in glistening spikes of vanilla-scented whipped cream.
Touching my forearm, she’d most likely want to say something to me.
Quicker than her, I excuse myself, push my chair back, and rise, hoping to feel his eyes on me, not hers.
It doesn’t happen, although I do benefit from the attention of everybody else in the room.
Pushing back a prickling touch of frustration, I spin around and leave the room.
My first thought is to go to the bathroom, spend some time alone, and return.
Although witnessing the plotting of my world’s demise isn’t high on my priorities list.
But then I change my mind and turn right to exit the house and get lost in the backyard.
I barely move in that direction when a firm hand wraps around my forearm, and a familiar smell of patchouli tickles my nose.
“Where are you going?” Sylvia asks, and I stop.
Sighing with irritation, I turn to her, my lips heavy with resentment.
“Anywhere but here. I want to leave this house,” I say, disdain folded in my voice. “I want to get away, change my name, and have a fisherman adopt me. Leaving in poverty for the rest of my life would be a blessing next to this,” I go on, riding a crest of defiance, and watching my grandmother scrunch up her nose at the pungent smell of my disobedience.
One of the few little satisfactions I had in my life was observing her get thrown off by the most outrageous statements I had put out.
Although everything I said just now is one hundred percent true.
I’d live anywhere on this planet, no matter the hardship, as long as I could start all over again.
If I could erase my memory, I’d do that to start with a clean slate and never have any recollection of these people.
She presses her lips together and studies me with a stern look on her face.
“There’s no need to be so dramatic,” she says, her voice dipped in honey. “Nothing will happen to you,” she reassures me, and I would almost believe her if it weren’t for my past experience with them.
