Page 16 of Soulmate of the Mafia King
“No.” I dropped my cards on the table. “I think I want to watch TV.”
9:15. I turned on the massive television as my guards drifted back to the supply table. Tom had to at least be at the rented house by now, right? I imagined him waltzing in by himself, and Killian congratulating him on finally convincing me to be a good mafia girlfriend. The dick.
I flipped through channels. Arabic, Arabic, something that definitely wasn’t Arabic, but wasn’t a language I spoke. The first English program I found was a soap opera I’d never heard of, clearly in the middle of a late season episode. One woman pushed another down the stairs. 9:22. Another woman announced to a man that she was pregnant, and they could finally start the family they’d always dreamed of.
On the screen, the man took on Tom’s dark curls and green eyes as he seized the woman and spun her around.
“You’ve made me the happiest man in the world,” Not-Tom said. “Now, let me make you the happiest woman.”
He set the woman down and got on one knee, then held out a jewelry box. The woman grew my red hair as her brown eyes teared.
“Yes!” Not-Me said. “A million times yes.”
They embraced. I let my eyes go blurry and spun the rest of their lives out. I pictured Not-Me in the hospital, screaming and clinging onto her Tom’s hand hard enough to break bones. Her—my beautiful smile as they laid my baby on my chest for the first time. The quiet way Tom would ask to hold her, and care in every muscle as he lifted her, like he was afraid one wrong move would break her in half. She’d be his world, of course, until the twins came along a few years later. I’d split my time between the shelter and home, maybe open a children’s wing so I could bring them in with me when they got old enough. When the kids grew up and moved out, maybe we’d foster more. We had such a big house to fill, after all.
I sent a silent prayer up to who—or what—ever might be listening to bring Tom home safe. I wanted the future I imagined so bad I could taste it.
A fourth woman pushed Not-Me down the stairs. 9:27. I stood.
“I’m gonna go…do something.” I marched back into the room I’d shared with Tom, though this time I left the door open. I needed to hear the voices outside, remind myself I was real.
I opened the suitcase of supplies back up and resumed sorting them. I was supposed to be there with Tom. The plan was to bring the suitcase, to get the women fixed up at the house, but what was I supposed to do now? Was I just supposed to meetTom and the rest of them at the airport? Abandon these women to the company of only men until we were leaving the country?
Tom probably had a plan, and he just forgot to tell me. He had more back-up plans than I gave him credit for. Just after he walked out, I’d heard him talking to Sam outside. He probably gave the plan to Sam then, and I could just walk outside and ask him for it. Perfectly normal.
I checked my phone: 9:28. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if I just texted Tom, though, right? A quick plan confirmation certainly wouldn’t be trouble. The prayer began, and I did my best to shut it out.
In my mind’s eye, I saw Tom sneaking up to the outside of the bastard’s palace, his phone ringing loudly, and a million searchlights targeting him in the second before he was riddled with bullets. He wouldn’t make a mistake like that. But better safe.
I finished sorting all of the supplies. 9:38. There was nothing left to do. I walked back out into the common room, stood next to one of the windows, and waited.
CHAPTER 13
TOMMASO
The rented house displayed none of the chaos it had shown when I arrived this morning. The dozen cars sat in neat lines of six, all off and shut. Light blared from every window of the house, but even as I walked up to the front door, I couldn’t hear a peep. My stomach flipped. Had the spot been found?
I opened the door to see hundreds of men creeping from room to room, all armed to the teeth. My split-second of panic vanished. We’d planned this perfectly. Now, we just had to execute. I stepped inside and grabbed the nearest guy, one of Killian’s.
“Where is everyone gearing up?”
“Up there, second and third doors.” He jerked his chin at the stairs. “Killian said we had to because if we couldn’t walk down the stairs quietly, he’d send us to sit on the plane rather than letting us blow everything.”
That sounded like Killian. I patted the guy on the shoulder and headed upstairs. There was a little more activity here, men streaming into and out of the two indicated doors. I ducked into the first and found Stan behind a table full of guns, ammo, and armor.
“Morris…yes, you haven’t picked up your magazines yet.” He checked something off on a tablet and handed the man at the front two loaded magazines.
The guy nodded and walked away as I strode up.
“Looks like a pretty tight ship,” I said.
Stan nodded. “Thanks to you. Numbering and assigning numbers before we shipped out has been a godsend.”
I grinned. That had been one of Paige’s ideas, one she hadn’t wanted to take credit for in case she seemed naggy. I’d have to tell her if I got back.
When. Shit. When I got back.
Stan offered me the tablet, and I scrolled through the list to get out of my own head. Synced to the tablet of whoever was running supplies in the other room, new checkmarks popped up as I watched. Nearly everybody was kitted out. Just a handful of mercs, myself, Stan, and Killian to go. I handed the pad back to Stan.
