Page 5 of Diary of a Mafia Princess

I nodded and took one from the second drawer where she kept all her kitchen junk. The house was on a pretty large property, and the trip to the mailbox did take a minute or two on foot. I hoofed it along a well-worn dirt path, flashlight trained on the potholes I made a mental note to fill in so Mrs. Wilson didn’t trip and break something.

The package waited for me in the mailbox, and I took it out, not bothering to check the return address because the squishiness gave away that it was wool inside.

There were no streetlights out here, in the middle of rural nowhere, you had to go closer into town before you got that luxury.

But my flashlight caught on something metallic.

Something out of place.

Something wrong.

With a sick sense of rising dread, I aimed it at the road.

Or more accurately, at the black SUV parked in front of the property.

It hadn’t been there when I’d gotten home from work. I would have noticed, not only because there was no reason for any car to be parked in front of Mrs. Wilson’s house, unless they had business with us. But also, because nobody drove sleek black city cars out here. It was all rusted trucks and four-wheel drives. Practical vehicles for rural life.

This car was much more suited to the life we’d left behind.

And that had fear gripping me by the throat.

Once upon a time, I would have gone to the car, pulling a gun from the waistband of my pants, and unloaded bullets into whoever sat in the driver’s seat. Shoot first. Ask questions later.

Now all I did was stumble back toward the house.

Where I’d left Mrs. Wilson and my sister completely unprotected.

The flashlight clattered to the dirt at my feet. The package of wool falling a second later.

I ran for the porch. Sprinted like my life depended on it.

I couldn’t fucking breathe, but it wasn’t because of the exercise.

The door cracked back against the wall so hard it set my teeth on edge, but that was instantly forgotten by the scene laid out in front of me.

A man I knew all too well sat at the small wooden table covered in my sister’s homework, while Mrs. Wilson poured him a glass of sweet tea.

She hummed the Elvis song that had been playing when I’d left. “Oh, Luca! You didn’t tell me your father was coming to visit! I would have tidied the place up a bit.” She smiled at him warmly. “It’s so lovely to meet some of Izzy and Luca’s relatives.”

Izzy’s face was white. The healthy, happy glow she’d had just minutes earlier had been completely replaced with a sheen of sweat. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and her chest rose and fell too fast, her breaths sharp and painful-looking.

I was sure mine were the same.

“I wasn’t aware he was coming to visit.” My voice was cold as ice as I stared down at the man whose eyes were nearly identical to mine. I’d seen him every day when I stared into the mirror. So much so I’d stopped looking at my reflection at all, because all I’d seen was how similar I was to him.

Carlos Guerra took the offered glass from Mrs. Wilson’s bony fingers and swallowed a mouthful, careful not to spill a drop on his expensive suit that was wholly out of place in the run-down farmhouse we’d called home for the past twelve months.

We’d stayed too long.

I wanted to kick myself. The plan had always been to move around. To never stay still.

Being dead in the water was a sure way to get…well…dead.

But I hadn’t been able to bring myself to tear Izzy away from a life that had healed the broken parts of her. She’d made friends here, and leaving Mrs. Wilson after they’d developed such a tight bond would have destroyed both of them.

So we’d stayed.

Stupid.