Page 10 of Texting My Mafia Boss

Mara: Look what your daughter made.

There’s a photo attached, a small pair of lopsided mittens. A week has passed since her first message, the one I didn’t know what to do with. I know Livia must’ve told her to only contact me in case of an emergency. But there’s something about this woman. It’s just—I don’t know. It’s different.

I react with a thumbs up – no words – then put my phone in my jacket pocket.

“See the game on the weekend, Giorgio?”

“Yes, sir. Embarrassing, if you ask me, sir.”

“It was abysmal,” I agree.

My mind returns to the gym, not for the first time. And it won’t be the last. Mara standing there with her gorgeous hair piled atop her head. She was wearing sweats and an old, worn top, not some gym-bunny outfit. That somehow made it sweeter, the fabric clinging to her curves, hugging her chest tightly.

That night, I almost slipped in bed, thinking about what I could’ve done. Squeezed her hips and pulled her against me, thanking her in a husky voice for being there for my girl. Then forgetting about her role, my duties. I’d crush her with a kiss, then grind myself against her, letting her feel…

What? What am I even thinking?

All my goddamned life, I’ve tried not to be the cliché. The mafia boss using his position to take what he wants when he wants it. The loser too deluded to understand people are giving in to him because of who he is.

Anyway, I haven’t come close since. It would muddy the waters, indulging in thoughts like that. Sylvie is happy… Livia tells me. What a warped thought. I’m getting updates on my daughter from my housekeeper. I’ve just been so busy, with legitimate work and illegitimate work. Now this.

Mark walks across the street and taps on the window. “Nothing, boss,” he says, calling mebossbecause the driver is present.

“Gather the men in the store.”

I step from the car, looking up and down the street. This isn’t a trap. They, whoever they are, would’ve sprung it by now.

In the store, I clap and step onto the middle of the room. My men look up at me, some fully silver, some bald, some turning silver like me, some fresh-faced and looking to me for guidance.

“This was a stunt to make us look weak. As you all know, we can’t let this stand. My suspicion is they were clever enough to cover their tracks. They know I’ll string them up personally if we discover who they are. But that doesn’t mean we can get complacent. Work this neighborhood. Get some answers if they’re there to be had.”

When one of my men cracks his knuckles, I gesture at Mark, giving him the floor. “That doesn’t mean go around thinking you’re tough guys. We don’t want these people hating us. As a Family, we’re making legit money here. We don’t want that to change. Push, but be respectful. No violence, not to civilians.”

Salvatore, an older man, says, “But?—”

I look at him, and he goes quiet.

He lowers his gaze. “No, yep, understood.”

“Is it?” I growl. “Is it fucking understood?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

I sigh, then walk over and clap him on the arm. “There could be another goal here. They want us to overreact. They want to make us look like dogs. Like them. We won’t rise to that.”

Not yet, anyway.

In the car, Mark says, “Dante’s a suspect in my mind, the way he was acting last week, disrespecting his two bosses.”

“Possibly,” I say. “But our Families are close. There’s no money to be made in a play like this.”

“It’s not always about money, boss,” he replies.

I shake my head. I’m done with all that. Respect, violence, making a statement. I want business, clean and easy. But that’s not the life I chose. No, screw that. That’s not the life that waschosen for me.

“It is for me,” I snap. “Money for my daughter, so she can go anywhere and be anything.”

“Fair enough. But Dante might not be clever enough for this.”