Page 54 of Texting My Mafia Boss

“I could’ve taken my seat,” I murmur. “One of my men, a low-ranking fool I hardly know, got drunk and took out his rage on his wife. He had to be dealt with. Violence, exile, recompense to the poor woman. After a job like that, Livia, I feel dirty.”

She looks at me in shock. “You don’t usually speak like this, but Mara’s changing you.”

“Maybe she is,” I say fiercely. “Is that such a bad thing?”

Livia says nothing, just continues to stare at the house.

I sigh. “I want to be the man they deserve.”

“The mantheydeserve?” she mutters.

I push the car door open and stride into the house. When I check on Sylvie, she’s sleeping soundly with her nightlight on, Maranowhere in sight. I kiss her gently on the head and then go on to my own bedroom.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. Guilt gnaws at me. I was so convinced that simply being there would be enough. I should’ve listened to Mara.

Ettore: I failed her, didn’t I?

Mara: You were there. That’s what matters. Maybe next time… let her see that you showed up.

I swallow, my chest tight. She must’ve cooled off since we last spoke to each other. Or, like me, she’s able to hide parts of herself over text. That’s the magic of texting. That’s the tragedy of it too.

Ettore: I will. I’ve learned my lesson. Sometimes, I don’t feel like I belong among those people. I worry it becomes more about me rather than my daughter. People whispering to each other: Is that him? Is that Ettore Bellandi?

Mara: That’s understandable. But would Sylvie notice that? If it’s a case of you being uncomfortable so that Sylvie can feel like her dad is present, I know which I would’ve chosen.

Ettore: You’re wise beyond your years.

Mara:

Ettore: What’s that supposed to mean? You’re talking to an old man here.

Mara: Number one, you’re not old. Number two, you don’t need to compliment me. I’m just calling it how I see it.

Ettore: And how you see it keeps turning out to be right.

Mara: I’m going to try to get some sleep now. You should too.

Ettore: I will.

Mara: Try not to dream of me too much.

I look at her message for a long time, a smile on my face. She can always somehow do this to me. No matter the situation, she can make me smile like a loon. Like I never smiled before she came along.

Ettore: Impossible.

I put my phone down and lie back with my eyes closed.

And it’s true. Amidst the work crap, the mob drama, my sweet Sylvie, Mara is always there, a passenger in my mind. As sleep finally takes me, I find myself wondering if this is what falling in love feels like. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done it before. I loved Sylvie since the day she was born, but no romantic love has ever gripped me, not even for my dead wife.

The next morning, I make pancakes again. Sylvie bosses me around as I serve hers, pointing her finger and saying, “There, Daddy.” I chuckle and carefully ladle it onto her plate. Mara grins at me from across the table. As I sit and tuck in with them,it feels almost like we’re a little family. Mara keeps glancing at me, and I do my best not to outright stare at her. The silent tension makes me want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her someplace private.

Then my cell phone rings. The mood changes. Sylvie rolls her eyes like a girl twice her age, far too jaded for her years.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur.

“I know, Daddy.” She sounds tired and unsurprised. The lack of shock is maybe the worst part.

It’s Mark. I walk into the back of the estate so that I can see Mara and Sylvie through the window.