Page 37 of The Mafia Bachelor

He can’t see me. And yet, despite his unbothered look, he watches until the car turns the corner and he disappears out of sight.

My poor heart. I’m so incredibly in trouble. I think I’ve fallen in love with Kill. A man who is absolutely not for me. A mafia boss.

15

AVERY

I thought there was nothing more terrifying than Kill’s mother, being shot at, or meeting the London Maths Club, but as it turns out, there is.

Kill is coming for dinner. At my parents’ house. Sunday lunch, no less.

And his parents will be here too. Was there ever a more awkward situation? But my mum insisted that if we were meeting, she’d cook lunch with all the trimmings.

They arrive like a cross between royalty and movie stars, complete with black limos with dark glass, half a dozen other SUVs and Kill’s men in black suits and visible guns. In my parents’ quiet 1970s cul-de-sac.

There’s a hurricane of curtain twitching.

“Oh. Gosh.” My mum’s understatement rings through our tiny entrance hall, with its wind chimes and “Welcome to this Happy Home” plastic sign from a trip to Spain years ago.

“Yeah,” I agree.

“You’ve been working for this man? Is that right?” my dad asks again, and I don’t blame him. I do not fit with Kill, and the difference between us has never been this stark.

“Yeah.” Now my voice is faint and self-pitying. “But uh. It’s quite intense?”

“Oh.” My dad doesn’t fully understand.

“Well, they’re on time!” My mum makes the best of the situation with a pointless comment.

This is going to be a disaster.

My heart beats like a hummingbird in my chest, and my mouth is dry. I’ve been putting this off, telling myself that Kill and I can figure it out. My parents thinking he’s my employer, his parents believing I might marry him. The truth somewhere in between, or perhaps neither.

But as Kill and his parents walk towards our front door, I can see what’s going to happen. My parents will let the cat out of the bag, assuming Kill is my employer, and the whole thing will come crashing down.

“Mum, Dad, there’s something important I need to tell you,” I say urgently.

“Is that a designer handbag?” My mum doesn’t even look at me.

“My job is to disrupt a competition to marry Mr Farrell, my boss, and his parents don’t know that I’m his employee. And you can’t tell them, or I’ll lose my job.” It falls out of me in a rush, in a half-whispered panic.

My parents don’t respond, as though shock has trapped in amber. Then they both turn to me in horror, before Kill is at the door, and they swivel back in unison and paste on polite expressions. There are words like “Hello!”, “Welcome!”, “So lovely to meet you!” being said, like some sort of railway track of social nicety that even a bomb like I’ve just detonated half a second before a guest’s arrival cannot derail. The two sets of parents have their own rules, and play their parts perfectly, Sue handing over flowers and my mum being performatively delighted, both insisting that they call each other by their first names. The fathers shake hands.

I barely get a chance to do more than give Kill a glance that probably conveys that I’m about ready to throw my guts up. This is so bad.

“Come in, come in.” My mum ushers the Farrells into our neat little living-room, and never has it seemed smaller than with Kill in it. He takes up all the space, like there’s no air left in here. “Now, what can I get you all to drink? And help yourself to nibbles. Do sit down.” She indicates the bowls of peanuts and crisps on the pristine coffee table between the over-stuffed sofas.

I watch Sue assess our house, and bristle with protectiveness at the silent judgement in her eyes.

“Thank you.” Kill smiles and settles himself down, and where the enormous sofas swallow anyone else whole, his long limbs and powerful presence easily take it up. His dad takes Kill’s lead and sits beside him as my mum and Sue try to out-polite each other about drinks.

“Avery, could you help me with these flowers?” My mum gives me a significant look, and I slink after her into the kitchen.

“That’s THE Farrells,” she hisses in an undertone as soon as the door is closed.

I wince. “I know.”

“The Archway mafia! And you’re pretending to want to marry him?” she demands.