Page 72 of Mafia Kingdom

The intensity of his instructions sends a chill down my spine. "You're scaring me, Marco."

"Good," he says bluntly. "Fear will keep you alert. Keep you alive if things go badly."

"Don't say that," I whisper, gripping his hands tighter. "You promised you'd come back."

His expression softens slightly. "And I will. But our world is unpredictable, Sasha. I need to know you're prepared if—"

"I'm not discussing this," I cut him off, unable to even contemplate the possibility. "You're coming back. End of story."

Marco studies me for a long moment, then pulls me against him, his arms encircling me in a possessive embrace. "As you wish," he murmurs against my hair.

We stand like that for several minutes, both of us drawing strength from the contact. When we finally part, I'm struck by the vulnerability in his eyes, so at odds with the ruthless crime boss the rest of the world sees.

"I've been thinking," I say, needing to give voice to the idea that's been forming since dawn. "Karen and Lily need some normalcy in all this chaos. We all do."

Marco raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.

"I want to cook dinner tonight. A proper family meal." The words tumble out faster now. "Not just for us, but for your men too—Tony, Mike, the others who've been protecting us. You, when you return from the meeting."

"A family dinner," Marco repeats, as if testing the unfamiliar concept.

"Yes. Something...normal. Something that reminds us all that we're still human, despite everything."

I expect him to dismiss the idea as frivolous or irrelevant in the face of the dangers surrounding us. Instead, he nods slowly. "I'd like that."

Relief and something like joy flutter in my chest. "Really?"

"Really." His thumb traces my cheekbone with surprising tenderness. "Use whatever you need. The staff will assist you."

The simple permission—so domestic, so ordinary—strikes a nerve with me. This man, who commands an empire of violence and fear, is giving me free rein in his kitchen, supporting my attempt to create a pocket of normalcy in a world spinning increasingly out of control.

"Thank you," I say softly.

His phone buzzes, breaking the moment. A quick check of the screen has his expression hardening back into the mask of Marco the crime boss. "I need to go," he says, already mentally shifting into the mindset required for the confrontation ahead.

"Be careful," I plead, knowing the words are inadequate for the danger he faces.

Marco kisses me—hard, fast, almost desperate—before pulling away. "No matter what, do not leave this house," he instructs, back to giving orders. "Stay with Tony or my other men. Trust no one else."

Then he's gone, leaving only the lingering warmth of his lips on mine and the faint scent of his cologne hanging in the air.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Sasha

I SPEND THE rest of the morning and early afternoon in the kitchen, losing myself in the familiar rhythms of preparation. I make lists, direct staff to procure additional ingredients, and begin the slow, methodical process of creating a feast worthy of the occasion.

Traditional Irish comfort food seems appropriate. I prepare colcannon with fresh kale and creamy butter, slow-cook beef in Guinness until it falls apart at the touch of a fork, bake brown bread from my mother's recipe. The work is therapeutic, each chop of the knife and stir of the pot bringing me closer to the center I've been seeking since this nightmare began.

Lily joins me occasionally, eager to help and full of questions about the estate and its occupants. Her childish curiosity provides a welcome distraction from my constant worry about Marco. Each hour that passes without word from him stretches my nerves tighter, though I maintain a calm façade for Lily's sake.

Karen watches from the periphery, her disapproval gradually giving way to reluctant involvement as I cajole her into kneading dough and peeling potatoes. The familiar tasks seem to soften her slightly, or perhaps it's simply the normalcyof cooking together, as we did for family gatherings before my mother's death changed everything.

"You're really invested in this, aren't you?" she observes as I arrange flowers for the dining table—roses from Marco's greenhouse, their fragrance filling the kitchen. "Playing house in a mobster's mansion."

"It's not playing," I say quietly, focusing on the arrangement to avoid her judgmental gaze. "And it's not just about Marco."

"No?" Karen's skepticism is palpable. "Then what is it about, Sasha? Because from where I'm standing, you've dragged your nine-year-old sister into a very dangerous situation for the sake of a man who kills people for a living."

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