Page 31 of Possessive Mafia Vows

I suck in a deep breath and type, my fingers jabbing so hard at the keys I’m surprised I haven’t punched a hole in the screen.

Bash was here, but you already know that don’t you? I don’t want your men following me. I don’t want your protection.

My phone rings, and I pick it up. I don’t wait for him to speak.

“Why are you having me followed?”

“Hey, sweetheart.”

The voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I didn’t check the caller ID.Fuck!

“Who’s following my baby girl?”

“No one. And I’m not your baby girl.”

A chuckle reaches me through the handset, and I instinctively hold the phone away from my ear, as if his fingernails will appear at any moment and scratch the side of my face.

“You’ll always be my baby girl, Sienna.”

Why is he still talking?

“I’m busy. Can I call you later?”

I could just hang up, but he’ll only call me back. Best to just get the conversation over and done with, finish my coffee, maybe put my earbuds in, close my eyes, and listen to some meditational rainfall on Spotify. Cleanse the rest of the world from my system.

“Too busy to open the door and let me in?”

Fuck!

“You’re here?”

“Didn’t you get my message?”

He knows I did. He can see that it’s been read even if I didn’t reply.

“Yeah…” I’m trying to find an excuse not to open the door, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he watched Bash leave too. Resigned, I say, “I’m coming.”

He’s standing outside blowing exaggeratedly into his cupped hands to keep himself warm when I open the door. He’s wearing a beaten-up brown leather coat that looks as if he bought it in the 70s, and square-toed lace-up shoes that have probably neverbeen polished. I notice for the first time, his shiny, liver-spotted scalp peering through his thinning gray hair.

“Thought you’d never open the door.” He steps inside without waiting to be invited, and peers around at my artwork, rubbing his hands together like a miser from an old fairy tale. “This is classy, sweetheart.”

I close the door, shutting me in with him.

I don’t want him here. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t touched anything. But the thought of him breathing on my paintings sets my teeth on edge like he’s swallowed something noxious and has come here to destroy everything he sees. I find myself studying his mouth, waiting for a puff of dirty green gas to appear.

Deep breath.

I’ve let him get to me, and that’s exactly what he wanted. Any attention is better than none, right?

“Is this the piece?” He steps closer to my self-portrait, and I’m jolted into action.

I scurry across the room, heart pounding. “I think that painting is sold.”

Did it sound like I was saying:Touch that canvas at your own peril? I fucking hope so.

Maybe he picks up on the threat in my voice.

He stops a couple of paces away from the painting and turns to me with a smug smile, still rubbing his hands together. “I know.”

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