Page 34 of Revenge on the Mafia

I set the cup on the drip tray under the hot water machine and threw a glance over my shoulder. Isidora stood at the doorway. Beautiful and seductive in a tiny red dress that screamed for the hearts of men.

“No.” I shook my head. “I’m too tired.”

“You know he’s not home, anyway.”

Not this again. “And?”

She shrugged and looked behind her, checking for Magda, who appeared at the most unfortunate times before whispering loudly. “Your crush is pretty obvious. Not that I blame you. I mean, my panties soak every time I hear him in another room. I don’t even have to see him. He doesn’t have to talk or touch. Just be there.” She sighed.

A foul taste filled my mouth. “Basta ya. We’re grown women. We have more dignity than to swoon over an asshole’s good looks.”

She frowned, taken aback by my sharp tone. I didn’t apologize. The way she fell all over herself to please the man pissed me off. I turned around and jabbed the button for the hot water. “And I don’t have a crush on him.”

“Hmm… of course you don’t. That’s why you keep asking about him. During dinner, Magda asked me to take you out. I think, she thinks you need to get laid.”

I glared at her.

She grinned. “I agree with her. Come out with me. We’ll find you a man to hump.”

“¡Vete a la mierda!”

“I love that language of yours, but there’s nothing nice in those words, is there?”

I ignored her and stabbed the button again. A stream of hot water gushed out and started dripping down the machine. “Mierda, lo olvidé.” I raced to the sink, grabbing the cloth to clean up the mess, already dripping down the cupboard to the floor.

“I got mierda. What’s with the rest?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. You stay home and think about your non-existent crush. In the meantime, our boss is probably fucking a cute European girl while you’re…” She faltered. I turned. She was observing me with interest. “You’re European and cute—”

“Seriously?” I threw my hands up. “So are you.”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t look at me like that.”

Well, she wasn’t planning on killing him.

She backed away from my glare. “All right. All right. I’m going. Have fun with your boring tea.”

“It’s not boring,” I snapped, soaking the hot water with the cloth. “It’s chamomile to calm my nerves.”

“I wonder why you need it.”

“Because I need to—” I bit back the words. ‘Kill the man’ wouldn’t go down well with my new friend. I stalked to the sink and wrung the cloth out, wishing it was a blue-eyed-six-foot something man in my hands.

“Ah, ah. That’s what I thought. You take care of yourself. Oh, maybe you should do that. You know, to ease that tension. It will work better than your tea.”

“It’s not what you think—”

She pointed to her head. “No thinking here. Just fun times. Bye, girl.”

She took off before I could correct her.

I threw the wet cloth into the sink with more force than necessary. I was as carefree as Isidora when Papá was alive. I couldn’t even relate to what it felt like anymore.

Frustration coiled in my chest. I came here with an endgame. Tried thrice. Failed thrice. He was still alive. Worse, he seemed to be having fun at my expense, and everyone else thought I had a crush on him. I wanted to crush him to his death.

It should have been a deed of a few agonizing minutes, like it had been with his father. I’d throw up afterward. I knew that. But I’d go through it. Done it before. Could do it again. Hell, I was a serial killer in the making. How hard could this shit be?