Page 370 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

I suddenly feel like one of the toxic heroines in the romance novels I devour, the ones who can’t let a guy get close because they don’t trust anyone, the ones who are so emotionally damaged that they want to rely entirely on themselves and not get into any romantic entanglements with hot as fuck strangers.

That’s where the similarity ends for me.

The difference for those other girls is that they eventually bend…then bend over…and let the guy in — literally and figuratively.

And that’s just not me.

My past is too littered with death and devastation for anyone to possibly break through. Right now, I feel like an empty shell, void of everything except hatred. And that shit is debilitating. The only way I think I can actually move on is to make sure that the people who hurt my family feel the same pain.

Because I feel it all the time.

A sharp pain assaults my chest.

I can’t even look at mint chocolate chip ice cream anymore without dissolving into tears because it’s the guilty pleasure Maks and I had always shared. It was our tradition to go out for it once a week and to talk and laugh and act like somewhat normal people for a little while.

On those occasions, we’d remember our parents and our lives back home.

Even though things came to a tragic end, there was still so much good and I always vowed I’d remember it all. Maks knew how much I needed to talk about them, that if we didn’t, I was petrified I would forget.

He knew me better than anyone and he always promised to find us a way out.

And then he died.

My best friend in the whole world left me, and I never even got to say goodbye.

Through all of my splintered thoughts, the woman keeps chatting. I don’t want to seem rude, although I hope she doesn’t ask me a question because I haven’t heard a single word she’s said in the past couple of minutes. I keep smiling and nodding, realizing that she only wants someone to talk to, and I silently thank God when the stewardess’s voice comes over the speaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to begin our descent into McCarran International Airport in our destination city of Las Vegas. The local time is two o’clock in the afternoon and the temperature is one-hundred-and-two degrees. Please fasten your seatbelts and put away all electronic devices. We will be on the ground shortly.”

My fingertips turn white as I clutch the arms of my seat.

“Oh, are you afraid of landings?” the woman asks, noting my death-grip on the armrests. She reaches out an pats my hand. “No worries, dear. It’s all computer-based, anyway. These planes don’t even need humans to fly them! The computers are even smarter than the pilots, if you ask me,” she says in a conspiratorial voice. “We’ll be on the ground, safe and sound, soon enough!”

I sit back against my seat and let out a deep breath. It is actually nice to listen to someone drone on about innocuous things like a weekend out with the girls, winning slot jackpots, and which hotel has the best buffet for the money. The conversation pales in comparison to the fantasies I’ve had looping through my mind about mystery man Gio from last night, but then again, maybe it’s time to shove those into the dark recesses of my mind where I lock up all of the other shit I can’t control.

I need to clear my mind of everything other than the job I was sent here to do.

Forget the fact that I have no clue how todosaid job, but I’ll just worry about that when the time comes. The most important thing is making sure I get the damn job in the first place.

The plane finally hits the runway, bouncing a few times before gaining traction on the pavement, and I let out a huge sigh of relief, gathering my stuff together so I can make a run for it as soon as the doors open.

The woman next to me, who introduced herself as Dottie, busies herself with putting her own bags together while she prattles on about the jerkoff husband of one of her friends who wouldn’t let her join in the weekend fun. I swear, she hasn’t taken a single breath since she started this one-sided conversation. She also hasn’t asked me a single thing about myself, which is fine by me. The last thing I need is for some lonely old woman to interrogate me about my own life choices.

I get enough of that at home from Olga, the seamstress I’ve been working with over the past few years. She taught me to sew when I first came to Brooklyn at thirteen and it helped calm the demons battling inside of my head and heart. It became therapeutic for me to work beside her, and I learned to use the needles in all sorts of creative ways. I even took up crocheting to get comfortable using the larger, longer variety.

Olga is now my only friend aside from Uncle Boris.

It’s a self-imposed occupational hazard.

I try to keep my circle small. Makes it easier to slip in and out of my everyday life to handle a hit when there aren’t many people interested in my whereabouts.

I never get caught in a lie because Olga is the only person who ever asks about things I can’t actually divulge. My stories are simple and straightforward, and I never mix up details because there is only one narrative.

But it’s damn lonely.

I’m suddenly a little jealous of Dottie and all of the girlfriends she’ll be spending the week with here in Vegas.

I guess it’s just not a life I was ever meant to have.

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