Page 36 of Claiming the Mafia Queen

I throw my shirt on and gather up the rest of our clothes, throwing them haphazardly underneath the covers. I flick the blankets and straighten the bed as much as I can. I wipe my face and smooth down my hair, running my fingers through it, combing it.

“Sorry, Honey!” I shout. “I was taking a nap!”

“Are you decent?” She waits outside the door.

She may be an annoying teenager, but at least she has respect in some regards, I guess.

" Uh...yeah …come on in..." I turn toward the door, trying my best not to expel an awkward smile.

Guilia’s brow is contorted and she looks around the room, confused.

“Were you talking to someone in here?”

“Just you…”

He should be grateful. At least he’s hidden under the bed. I feel self conscious. Like me and the room and both smell like sex and sweat. What if she finds out? What if they all do? How would I even explain it? What would I even say this was?

I didn’t even know what it was.

And how can you tell your kids it’s just someone you’re having fun with?

Like it was some sort of playdate.

My heart begins to race as she continues to stare at me.

" Why are you all red in the face? " She asks inquisitively.

I stand up from my bed. “I guess I'm just really tired…”

“You nap?” She questions again, her brow raised. She’s definitely suspicious of something.

“Did you find her?” Emma calls out, breaking Guilia’s attention, the moment becoming even more awkward by the second. “Whose night is it to clean up after dinner?” She sounds as soon as she comes into view.

I shrug. “You know I don’t keep track of those things…”

Guilia rolls her eyes and exhales sharply. “Right,” she snaps. “Because you’re not like a normal mom.”

I could tell as the years went by that my twin girls felt like they’d somehow missed out on something.

They have a mom, sure.

But their mom isn’t the typical soccer mom.

She doesn’t drive a minivan.

She doesn’t shop at Costco.

She doesn’t volunteer at the PTA.

She doesn’t do anything normal mothers do.

But is that so bad?

Do they want mediocre?

Do they want to be bored?

“What’s that…” Emma points.

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