Page 78 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

I hate the desperation in my voice.

He looks at her, then gives a sharp snort.

“Will you go to Switzerland after this?”

I don’t have any intention of leaving Ireland. However, I need to go with her. I need answers.

So I look at Marco, and I lie straight to his face.

“Yes.”

Mum leads us to a townhouse, one of the little sea-facing ones that are stacked like rainbow-colored blocks vertically along the Irish shore. It’s quaint; the town is small, and the townhouse is tiny. Marco has to duck to get through the door, and I can tell instantly that he doesn’t like the inside.

Too fucking bad.

I also know what his protests will be. It’s not easy to defend. You can set the entire row of houses on fire to get to this one. There’s only one way in and out. I know them, because I have them too.

This is screaming—according to all my instincts—dangerous, but I can’t stop.

She’s mymum.

And I haven’t seen her since I was ten years old.

Inside, Marco is loath to separate from me. Mum seats me on a worn couch, looking at Marco, who is looming like an overgrown crow.

“I’ll make us some tea,” she finallysays.

It feels so normal. Like something a mother would do, if they were meeting their daughter’s partner for the first time.

She disappears, and Marco gives me a sharp nod.

“I’m going to check out the house. If anything happens, scream,” he whispers.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t need to do that.”

He gives me a meaningful look. But I like that he thinks I can take care of myself.

I think.

My feelings about Marco are in turmoil. I’m relieved that he found out what happened to my brother and Stassi. I’m annoyed that he keeps trying to push me to go to Switzerland. I’m relieved that he thinks I can be alone in a dangerous environment, even if it is with my mother.

I’m annoyed that he thinks I need to scream for help.

It’s a rollercoaster. One that isn’t helped by the fact that every time he kisses me, my brain becomes completely scrambled and I can’t remember who I am.

Or what I’m doing.

My mum comes back, a classic tea service, chipped cups and all, on a tray. Her hands shake, slightly, as she sets it down.

Marco drifts back in, ready to hover behind my shoulder, a threatening shadow.

She gives him a look. “Tea?”

“No,” he rumbles.

Her lips tilt up in a smile. “Ah. American.”

“I hate tea. And coffee,” he grumbles.

---