Page 60 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

She’s entirely focused on paper samples.

“…I really think that at such short notice, we should go with something more casual, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I respond, aware of Moretti coming closer. The shop is tiny. He’s practically breathing down our necks. If he hasn’t shot either of us yet, he’s probably here on capture orders.

Which means a sedative.

Which means we need to get the fuck out of here.

In my pocket, my fingers reach for my phone. If I can call Marco…

“And what do you think for the envelopes? Cream or eggshell?” Stassi points.

“Stassi, I don’t feel well,” I whisper in her ear.

She blinks at me. “What?”

“I need to leave. Right now.”

“Um, okay, but…”

I tug on her hand. “Please, it’s the… it’s my cramps,” I add.

If Moretti is listening, I’m hopeful that the mention of something feminine will put him off. You’d be surprised at how often men, even ones with killer intent, hesitate when it comes to a period.

Stassi frowns. “Okay, but…”

“Now,” I tug on her hand.

I can’t linger. I know she’s going to want to talk to the shop owner, who I really hope isn’t going to be a casualty of Moretti too. I drag Stassi, who is trying to wave down the shop keep, out the door.

When we get outside, she tugs her hand back. “What the heck, Ro? You feel that bad? I swear, that was so rude?—”

“Andrei Moretti walked into the shop behind us,” I whisper.

Stassi’s blue eyes widen, then her face goes pale. “What?”

It’s good to know, I guess, that she finally understands the severity of the situation. “We need to fucking go,” I whisper.

“What? How on earth would he… I thought he was in Brazil? I thought he died in that landslide?”

“Nope,” I shake my head, dragging my phone out to call for our driver. “He was right fucking here, in the shop with us.”

“Let me call for the driver…”

A booming noise, followed by searing heat, cuts her off.

Instinctively, I grab Stassi. She’s a head or so taller than I am, but I’m stronger, and I wrestle her to the ground. The soundof the explosion echoes around the picturesque seaside village, and I hear screaming from the direction of where we parked.

Stassi’s eyes widen. “Roisin. Do you think…”

“Call Liam,” I hiss. “Now.”

My fingers are already pulling up Marco’s number. I dial it, my fingers flying across the screen.

He picks up on the first ring. “Roisin, what?—”

“Andrei Moretti is in town. The car blew up. Come get us,” I hiss.

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