Page 66 of Mafia Princess

I take another bite, watching her carefully from the corner of my eye. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“No,” she admits, setting down her chopsticks. “I have to tell you something, but you have to promise you won’t be mad.”

“I don’t know if I can promise that without knowing what you’re going to say.”

“Fine,” she says lightly. “Then I won’t tell you.”

I sigh. “Okay, I won’t be mad.”

She grins slyly. “I love that that actually works, but you know I would have told you anyway. Like I said before, I don’t want secrets between us.”

“Now I’m intrigued,” I say, arching a brow. “What’s this secret?”

“I went to see my mom yesterday.”

My throat catches, and I have to set down my bite and get a drink of water before I choke. “What?”

“I know what you’re going to say, but I took my bodyguard and a driver and my Glock. I was careful, and I’m fine. I just thought you should know.”

“I would have gone with you,” I say quietly.

“I know,” she says, reaching over to lay her hand on mine. “But it was something I needed to do on my own. I hope you can understand.”

I can’t. I can’t see how she could do something horribly traumatic and not want me by her side, but think her bodyguard and driver would be better adept at sharing the experience with her. But it’s not what I’m supposed to say, so I nod stiffly.

“I’m sorry if that upsets you,” she says. “I knew you’d want to do something about it, and believe me, I thought about it. That’s why I brought a gun. But in the end, I’d just be putting her out of her misery. She deserves to suffer.”

“And was she?” I ask. “Suffering?”

“Yes,” Eliza says. “She lives in the projects.”

I try to soften my voice level and not sound like a controlling dick, but it’s hard. “You went to the projects alone?”

“No, I had a bodyguard,” she says. “And it wasn’t even dark.”

I take a deep breath, trying to control myself. Anger never solves anything, and it usually makes things worse. I search for the relevant answer here, the one that shows her I love her even if I don’t approve of what she did.

“How are you?” I ask at last, turning my hand under hers and linking our fingers.

I can see the tension melt from her, her shoulders relaxing, and I know blowing up at her would have been the worst thing I could do. “I’m okay, I think,” she says. “I mean, as okay as you can be after seeing your mother has turned into a crackhead. I don’t know. I saw her as her own person for the first time, not just my mother who left me.”

“Who hurt you,” I clarify.

“That, too,” she says. “I spent so much time pretending it didn’t happen. And then pretending she was good for leaving. And seeing her now… It was just sad. I guess I’m a little angry that I didn’t get to be angry.”

“You can be angry.”

“I know,” she says, squeezing my hand before withdrawing hers and picking up her chopsticks again. “But it’s hard when the person is literally sleeping in the bed they made for themselves. It’s like I didn’t have a chance to get revenge. She got revenge on herself already, even if she didn’t mean to. And I’m kinda pissed that I didn’t have a chance to do that, but at the same time, I’m relieved that I don’t have to live with that.”

“It’s a lot to live with,” I admit. “Taking someone’s life.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug, remembering Il Diavolo’s words. “Eat or get eaten, I guess.”

Over the rest of dinner, she fills me in on more detail about her visit, her mother’s poor condition, and her lack of remorse. After dinner, we clean up together.

Something about the simple act makes the place in behind my sternum that used to fill up with cold slush so warm it aches. I know that each of these moments, no matter how sweet, is fleeting. Not only fleeting but numbered. One day, my number will be up. Until then, I enjoy each moment, even when the sweetness hurts my teeth.

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