Page 38 of Diary of a Mafia Princess

Dear Diary,

Today I watched Luca sulk about a hockey team while I tried not to strangle him. Self-control is exhausting.

Ididn’t know which Mr. Guerra I was more pissed at.

Carlos for his little display of ownership over Nyah and for putting me in my place like I was the scum on the soles of his shoes.

Or Luca, for the way he’d just been handed ownership of a hockey team. When he didn’t even like the fucking sport!

Oh, how sweet it must have been to have money.

I trailed him and Nyah up the stairs to their rooms, raging on the inside over the fact he was acting like a sulky, rich brat.

Where the hell was the tradesman in jeans and dirty boots I’d met at the fights? I could admit that Luca looked good in a suit, but I didn’t get people with money. I grew up in fucking Saint View, and in the trailer park at that. I barely had a ninth-grade education. Hell, the fact I could read seemed like a damn miracle.

I was a thug at best. I’d never been good at anything other than sex, selling drugs, killing people with little to no regret, and hockey. Which I’d only gotten to play because my mom’s boyfriend had worked at the old Saint View ice rink. The place had been a hole, even back then, and I wasn’t surprised that by the time I got out of prison, they’d built a new one.

I’d been aching to get on the ice ever since.

If someone had handed me a team, albeit a pretty bad one, judging by the few games I’d caught on the TV at Psychos, I would have been jumping up and down like I’d won the lottery. A whole fucking team! Shit, I would have given my right nut for that opportunity.

And yet here was Mister Silk Pants, stomping off upstairs and throwing a tantrum because he didn’t want it.

It didn’t matter that I thought Luca was hot. And that the feeling was apparently mutual.

We had nothing in common.

Nyah disappeared into her bedroom and closed the door. Luca did the same farther down the hallway.

I stood there in between, like the fucking chump I was.

Five hundred and seventy-one. Five hundred and seventy-two… So many grapes to count.

“Lynx!” Luca hollered from inside his bedroom.

I ignored him.

A moment later, his door opened and he stuck his head out. “You deaf?”

I didn’t bother looking at him. I was too busy counting. “I’m not. I heard you bellow. But it’s not my job to jump at your beck and call. I’m here to protect Nyah. Not to be your servant.”

“Just come in my room, would you? I need to talk to you.”

“No thanks. I can’t do my job from in there.” Even if my job right now was ignoring how fucking good Luca smelled and staring at a painting I was beginning to despise. “Now you’ve made me lose count and I’m going to have to start over. Thanks.”

Luca just squinted at me, clearly confused, but clearly also not caring enough to ask me to explain. “Just get in here.”

I turned to glare at him. “You might not take your job seriously, but I do. I’m not leaving Nyah unprotected.”

“From what? She’s in her house!”

I clenched my jaw. Had he not seen what had just happened to her downstairs? The people in this house were exactly who she needed protecting from.

Not that I could do anything to stop Carlos Guerra from exposing her and sucking all over her tits like he was breastfeeding.

I threw up a bit in my mouth.

But at the same time, I realized Luca was right. I couldn’t protect her in this house. Not from the man who owned it.