Page 78 of Taken By the Mafia King
The door burst open and slammed against the wall.
I yelped and dropped my fork, which left a sticky maple-syrupy mess on my cashmere pants. Delaney stalked through the door, her face ashen and glistening with tears. I shot her a dirty look she was too self-absorbed to notice. Whatever drama she wanted to share wasn’t worth ruining my comfy pants or losing a bite of pancake.
Olivia stood behind me and didn’t say a word. No one spoke. I hated when people did this kind of thing—showed up and waited to be asked what was wrong.
So performative.
“What is it, Delaney?” I rolled my eyes and looked at Olivia.
I expected Olivia to at least indulge me in a knowing smile and some shared annoyance, but her eyes were wide and fixed on Delaney.
Delaney didn’t look at me. Her unseeing gaze was fixed on the carpet at her feet. And in her right hand, she gripped a revolver.
“Delaney,” I said slowly. “What’s going on?”
“I went snooping,” Delaney whispered, sounding unearthly and unlike herself. Her eyes glazed over. “There’s a room downstairs… in the basement. It smelled like bleach but there were… stains. I grew up in this life. I know what old bloodlooks like.” She abruptly shook her head and snapped her gaze to mine. “I’ve heard of them, of course, but I’ve never seen one before. A killing room.”
Olivia stood up. “How did you get out of your room?”
Delaney’s choked sob ripped through the air, and for the first time, she seemed human—vulnerable, fragile, and unpredictable. I focused on the gun. We had to take it from her. Then we could worry about calming her down.
“Delaney,” I said gently. “Come sit with us and have breakfast.”
“I found my dad’s ring,” she blubbered.
My heart sank lower than I thought possible. Her mouth continued to work, but no words came out, just tears and snot running down her face.
“Delaney,” I said softly again, like a friend might. She didn’t look at me, so I called to her again. “You’re with me and Olivia. We aren’t going to hurt you. You’re safe here.”
For now.
Delaney ran her thumb over the cylinder of the revolver. Then her free hand pulled something from her pocket. It was small and wrapped in cloth. She held it out to me. It was then that I caught a whiff of something horrid.
Something dead.
I pinched my nose closed and reeled up out of my chair, backing away. “What is that?”
“His ring,” she cried, shaking like a wet dog. “I found his ring in the corner of the room, under some plastic.”
The stench was more unsettling than the gun in her hand.
“You shouldn’t have gone down there,” I said, shaking my head. “Whydid you go down there?”
Delaney moved toward the table. I backed up, and Olivia followed suit until we stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the large bedroom window. Delaney held her left hand overthe small table, uncurled her fingers, and dropped the cloth-wrapped something right next to my breakfast.
The cloth fell away, revealing it was a lot more than a ring.
My stomach twisted, and the small amount of breakfast I’d eaten threatened to come back up.
Olivia gagged. “I’m going to be sick.” She rushed to the bathroom, where I heard her throwing up, but it sounded like she was far, far away as I processed what I was looking at. Dimly, in the back of my head, a little voice laughed that this was Olivia’s karma for making me drink that foul remedy.
Delaney with the heels of her hands. The gun pointed in every direction. Her sanity had fractured, and all it would take was one wrong move and bullets would start flying.
I moved toward her, talking softly to her, telling her I was sorry, that she must be hurting, and that I would help her. She didn’t pull away when I touched her elbow and ran my hand all the way up to her wrist, where I was able to take the gun from her.
As soon as it left her hands, all her bravado dissipated, and she pitched forward into my arms, sobbing her heart out.
I rubbed her back and made little soothing sounds.
