Page 20 of The Mafia’s Girlfriend

“You work so much that you don’t give yourself a chance to meet anyone.”

Au contraire... I met a bold, feisty brunette today at work.

Emma was the only woman who came to mind. Since that incident in her condo, I struggled to force her out of my thoughts. It wasn’t so much that she had a fine body I’d like to worship and fuck hard. It was her instant antagonism, that immediate dislike just because we didn’t come from the same circles.

“It can’t be that hard. There’s got to be plenty of decent, nice, good girls around here. You just have to look. And meet them.”

Technically, Emma and I hadn’t met. I only knew her name because her friend said it. Otherwise, I never would’ve learned it. I was too far beneath Her Highness to warrant an introduction.

Besides, Emma was not the kind of dream daughter-in-law my mom was hoping for.

Emma didn’t look decent in that lacy, barely-there panties. She looked decadent. Sinful. She wasn’t a nice woman, either, sassing me back and glaring at me with such fire in her eyes. She seemed like a brat.

Emma would be nothing but trouble, and I knew better than trying to start something with a rich guest, a woman who’d never understand the life I had to fit into it.

She’d caught my attention. There was no denying that fact, but it didn’t erase the reality that she was off-limits.

I didn’t need to invite any more headaches in my life. I had enough trouble on my plate, and I wouldn’t be so stupid to go looking for more. I helped her out at the club, getting that prick away from her. I scolded her to be careful on the balcony, not that she’d listen anyway.

Next time—if there was another chance encounter with her—I’d mind my own business and stay out of her way.

My phone buzzed, and I glanced at it, glad for a distraction from thoughts about Emma.

Ben: It was nice talking with you tonight.

That was what I had to focus on. Getting better fights, making more money, and finding some damn stability. Only then could I worry about finding a nice, decent good girl.

Chapter 8

Emma

Another week passed without any sign of my father’s guards. Krista and I weren’t expected to come home. No Marchese men lurked on the Tropican property either.

Still, I didn’t lower my guard. My future loomed as an unwanted sentencing I hated to accept, and there was simply no way to ease this dread.

The other day, when I passed by a representative from the resort and received a “Good morning, Miss Giordino,” I was convinced that the ruse was up. Something about the curt nod of greeting and the uber-polite, ass-kissing tone told me enough. We used Krista’s name for checking in, but my father would know to track her reservation to me, too.

The resort staff had to know who I was. And I had a hunch my father was aware that Krista and I had taken off to hang out here. If I’d tried to leave town to go anywhere else in the world without security, he would’ve been on me about protocol and forced men to come after me.

But no one appeared. He could rely on the Tropican security while I was a VIP guest here. In fact, the longer he didn’t send anyone out to tail me, the more nervous I got. It became a game of waiting for the other shoe to drop. It seemed like Krista and I had some degree of separation so we could have some fun, but a loose sense of being watched remained.

I was being watched. It was a fact that I had yet to figure out how to handle.

Every time Krista and I headed to the beach and pool, walked to and from our condos, or ate at the restaurant, I felt the telltale burn of him watching me.

Luke. He seemed to be here every day or night. If he didn’t live here, he worked long hours. All week, I spotted him, and each time was like another chip of my patience cracking off and busting to pieces.

We exchanged glances from a distance. We glowered silently, daring the other to look away first. He had an issue with me, that was clear. The night I saw him walking, he told me that he didn’t have time for women who always got what they wanted. It was a rejection and a warning all in one, which made me all the more amused when he couldn’t avoid me. He was unable to ignore me, caught in this stupid pull that I felt to notice him. Without conscious planning, I had to know where he was, how close he could be, and if he was watching me.

He was wrong—about me always getting what I wanted, but my retort likely didn’t make sense to him. After many times of replaying the short interaction we had when I leaned over the balcony railing, I realized that he might have interpreted my comment to assume something else. That I had been telling him he was wrong about not having time for me, implying that he’d make time for me.

Which was ridiculous. He wouldn’t make time for me. It seemed like he wouldn’t dare to get close enough to speak to me. The man was here working, all the time, and I wasn’t so desperate to play coy and seek out his attention for the hell of it.

But I couldn’t turn off this draw, this awareness that he was in my sphere. When he passed by the pool, I was stuck profiling him and cataloguing how ripped and strong he was, with all his muscles straining the fabric of his uniform. When he glanced up from scoping out the surroundings, his brow furrowed as he peeked over the rim of his glasses. And that time I found him helping another man fix what looked like a busted pipe near the pool’s utility room, shirtless and his arms flexing with the torque of tightening a bolt.

All those damning incidences of seeing him woke up a dormant desire I never explored. Knowing I would be bartered off to someone prevented me from ever having girly crushes or getting infatuated with a boy at school. Any time I watched a movie with romance or browsed a book about a couple falling in love, I resisted the big feelings of yearning and locked them up.

What was the point of ever getting my hopes up? It was far easier to shut down and ice over the need to love and be loved.