Page 61 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
And my own face staring back at me.
What. The. Fuck.
Pictures of me are taped to the back wall like some deranged shrine. Some are recent, from security footage from around the house, by the looks of it. But others...
Others are older. Much older.
I recognize one from weeks ago in LA, walking into yoga class with Olivia. I remember that day because I’d spilled coffee on my shirt and had to change before we left.
Did Lorenzo take this picture himself? Even if he didn’t physically snap it, he obviously had me under surveillance long before that wedding night. This wasn’t some chance meeting, some fairy-tale love at first sight.
This was planned. Calculated.
Was hestalkingme?
24
LORENZO
After a lifetime in the mafia,my instincts have kept me alive through deals gone sideways and bullets flying.
Right now, they’re screaming.
I walk into the bedroom, water still dripping from my hair, and something feels wrong. The air is charged, like the moment before a storm hits.
My eyes sweep the room, cataloging details. Everything looks normal. Bed made, curtains drawn, Mia’s coffee cup still sitting on the nightstand from this morning. But something’s off.
The closet door is open.
That’s where she is, I tell myself. Just getting dressed. Nothing to worry about.
Except I’m wearing nothing but a towel and I’m unarmed, and my gut is telling me something bad is about to happen.
I stride toward the closet, my protective instincts flaring to life. Whatever’s wrong, I need to get to Mia.
But when I step into the walk-in closet behind her, the world tilts sideways.
She’s standing in front of the back wall, where one of the panels hangs open like an accusation. The hidden compartment I thought I’d closed properly this morning is gaping wide, revealing my secrets to the light.
My heart drops into my stomach and keeps falling.
Mia’s back is rigid, her shoulders drawn up to her ears. Her hand shakes as she reaches for the wooden box inside the compartment. The one that holds every piece of evidence of what I really am.
A stalker. A man so obsessed with his wife that he’s kept trophies like some kind of serial killer.
I should stop her. Should slam the panel shut and come up with some lie, some explanation that doesn’t make me sound like a complete psychopath.
Instead, I’m frozen.
After decades in this life, I’ve stared down loaded guns, negotiated with men who’d slit my throat for a dollar, made decisions that would determine whether dozens of people lived or died. I’ve never hesitated. Never felt fear like this—not for my life, but for something infinitely more precious.
Her.
Us.
Whatever fragile thing we’ve built together about to shatter into a million pieces.
Mia gasps as she opens the box. The sound cuts through me like a knife.
