I Saved the Mafia Boss—Now I'm His Obsession. novel Chapter 36

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

I sat on the stainless steel stool, one gloved hand gently bracing a very grumpy gray tabby named Junebug as she flicked her tail and made her displeasure loudly known to the room.

“Watch the hind leg,” Professor Kline said, half-distracted as he passed behind me, “They’re quick when they want to be.”

“I know, I know,” I murmured, more to Junebug than to him, “I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart. Just checking your pads. That’s all.”

Her ear flicked as if in acknowledgment.

The room buzzed with the sounds of clippers, conversations, and the occasional bark from the adjacent kennel room. My partner for the day, Samira, was focused on prepping the next set of nail trimming supplies, her black curls tucked into a tight bun, eyes narrowed in concentration.

I should’ve been focused. I wanted to be.

But my phone sat in the pocket of my scrub top. Every few minutes I imagined it vibrating. I imagined him messaging again.

He hadn’t.

Not since last night.

Not since I...

God.

What was wrong with me?

I’d stared at that photo for the whole night. The one of me naked, standing before a mirror. Trying to be... I don’t know. Something I wasn’t. Something bold or sexy, or... desirable. I’d taken it for someone I couldn’t see. Someone who made me feel like I had to.

I didn’t even know his name.

Just the messages, just the way he spoke to me.

I kept thinking... What if it’s Carlos? But that didn’t feel right. Carlos was stupid, yes. Mean sometimes but clumsy, lazy in his lies. He couldn't pull that off even if he tried, plus that person had been texting me before Carlos and I broke up.

And this... this man was methodical. He made me feel things I didn’t want to feel. Shame and heat and fear and want. A dirty, aching kind of want.

“Maddie,” Samira said, snapping her fingers in front of my face.

I blinked.

“Oh. Sorry. What?”

“You’re holding her paw too tight. You okay?”

I loosened my grip on Junebug immediately. The cat gave a low growl and turned her face toward me, annoyed.

“Yeah. Just distracted.”

Samira gave me a once-over. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

I smiled, “Just studying late. You know how it is.”

She didn’t look convinced, but thankfully didn’t press.

Professor Kline passed us again and said, “Don’t forget to note the swelling on digit two. Mild inflammation.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, writing quickly on my chart sheet, but my fingers fumbled with the pen. I kept imagining that picture, not of me taking it, but of him seeing it, saving it, zooming in.

Would he send it back to me someday? To prove he had it? Would he show someone else? To Adriano?

Would he hurt me?

My stomach twisted. I pulled off my gloves and excused myself to the hallway.

The corridor outside the lab was lined with bulletin boards and vending machines, posters of smiling dogs and happy kittens pinned up. I leaned against the cool wall and pulled my phone from my pocket.

No new messages.

Nothing.

I stared at the last text he’d sent me.

Did you feel powerful, knowing I was looking at you like that? Knowing I’d do anything for more?

I swallowed hard. I hated that I’d read it five times, maybe ten, maybe even more.

I locked the screen and tucked the phone back into my scrub top. What if it was someone from here? One of the techs at the clinic? Someone at school?

I shook the thought away and returned to the lab, cheeks hot, body numb. Junebug was already tucked away and Samira was moving on to the next patient, a golden retriever named Max who looked like he’d swallowed a beach ball.

After college, I went straight to the restaurant. The bus groaned and hissed as it pulled away from the curb. I stepped off and wrapped my arms tighter around my chest even though it wasn't that cold.

I pulled open the back door to Velluto Rosso and stepped inside, the clatter of prep in the kitchen, the soft hiss of steam from the coffee machine, someone laughing too loud near the wine fridge. I ducked my head, avoided eye contact.

In the locker room, I changed quickly. Shirt, pants, hair pulled up. I scrubbed my hands in the little sink, watching the water bead on my skin. My fingers looked pale and wrung out. I checked my phone again before clocking in, still nothing.

Maybe it was someone in the kitchen. Tom, with his too-loud voice or Daniel, who always looked like he was about to tell me a secret but never did. Or the dishwasher who never said a word at all.

They could all be him.

I swallowed hard and stepped onto the floor, past the wine bar, past the velvet booths, into the far corner where the vegan section lived.

I slipped into the employee bathroom and locked the door.

Checked my phone again.

Still nothing.

My reflection in the mirror looked pale, with that kind of nervous flush that made me look more alive than I felt. I tugged my collar higher. I hadn’t even worn anything revealing but I still felt exposed.

I wanted to cry but my shift wasn’t over. I still had tables to serve and specials to remember and smiles to fake. And somewhere in this building, maybe someone knew what I looked like under my clothes.

Maybe someone had saved it.

Maybe someone was thinking about me right now, even as I tried to disappear.

I tucked my phone back into my pocket, fixed my smile in the mirror, and went back out into the dining room.

I kept my head down, and served tables.

My hands twitched as I slipped behind the service wall. I told myself I wouldn’t check again, that I’d wait until break but my fingers moved anyway.

I pulled out my phone under the counter, just to see if the notification bar had changed.

Someone clicked their tongue and I turned to see Paula.

“Livia should really know,” she said, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “We’re not supposed to be on our phones during service. You know that, right Maddie?”

I looked up, “I—I was just—”

“She was just checking her texts,” Paula said brightly, now turning toward the front of house, “Mid-shift. Right behind the cutlery station.”

And then Livia emerged, “What. Are. You. Doing.”

I stood straighter, phone already tucked away, palms sweating. “I wasn’t— It was just for a second—”

“A second is all it takes to miss a plate, or a guest, or a tray falling,” Livia snapped, “Do you think this is some café on Milwaukee Avenue? This is Velluto Rosso. Not a high school part-time job.”

I could feel the heat prickling my cheeks, my ears and my spine. I knew everyone was listening. Even the busboys had stopped polishing their glasses. The back kitchen door had swung half open, and the line cooks were pretending not to look. I wanted to vanish, evaporate and crawl into the drain under the espresso machine and disappear forever.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

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