I Saved the Mafia Boss—Now I'm His Obsession. novel Chapter 6

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

There’s a spoon in my mouth.

A fucking spoon.

Warm, salty liquid slid down my throat before I could fight it, and by the time my brain caught up, she was already loading up the next hit like I was some half-dead pigeon she scooped off the street.

She made a soft sound, she sounded pleased, like feeding me soup was the highlight of her goddamn week.

Vincenzo, I needed my brother, Vincenzo.

“You’re awake again!” she chirped, and then made a face, “Well, Sort of. Ish. That’s okay. You don’t have to be all the way awake. I’ve got soup.”

What the fuck is happening?

My eyes dragged open, everything was bright, like the inside of a greenhouse had swallowed me whole. There were plants on every surface, hanging from the ceiling, climbing shelves.

And her.

She looked like springtime.

She was wearing an oversized pink T-shirt, hair in a lazy braid. No makeup, no shoes, just this barefoot, wide-eyed girl with the voice of a cartoon character.

God help me.

“Flan didn’t like the smell,” she said conversationally as she dipped the spoon again, “But she never does. She’s so dramatic. You’d think I tried to poison her with lentils or something.”

Another spoonful. She held it up to my lips like she was feeding a baby bird.

I wanted to curse, I wanted to tell her to get me a fucking cell phone so I can call my fucking brother and get the fuck out of here and off the drugs she had been feeding me but I was floating. My limbs weighed a thousand pounds and my head was made of smoke.

Wait, was she some psycho?

“You’re doing so good,” she cooked like she was talking to a baby. “I mean, your eyes are open now and your breathing’s steadier. Yesterday you were groaning and twitching, which the doctors said is a good sign.”

Soup again. I didn’t even taste it, it was something vaguely herbal, warm and had too much oregano.

She pushed a stool closer to the bed and sat down, still holding the bowl.

I watched her from the corner of my eye because I couldn’t do much else. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t move without feeling like my stitches were going to tear wide open and spill my guts across her nice little bedspread.

“My cat uses a walker,” she said brightly, like that was normal. “It’s this little custom thing I found on Etsy. She’s got wheels on her back legs now. Zooms around like a little sausage on rollerblades.”

I blinked slowly.

What.

“She was abused. Her previous owner broke her spine and left her in a dumpster. Can you believe that?” her face twisted with anger, like the cruelty still hurt her to remember. “She was barely alive when I found her. All matted and shaking and full of fleas but we fixed her up. Didn’t we, Flan?”

Somewhere in the room, the cat meowed. A weak, croaky little sound.

Jesus Christ.

“She has anxiety,” Maddie added, completely serious. “But so do I, so we understand each other. Sometimes we both hide under the couch when there’s thunder.”

I would’ve laughed if I could. Instead, a strange noise came out of me, some half-breath, half-choke that made her freeze.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Did you just make a sound?”

She leaned forward, all excitement and hope and way-too-close. Her face was inches from mine, eyes bright, lips parted.

Fuck.

Even in my barely living, drug-fogged state, I noticed her lips.

Full. Pink. A little chapped. Probably tasted like soup and some organic lip balm called ‘Coconut Cloud’ or ‘Peaceful Bee’ or some shit.

She smelled like rosemary and laundry.

She was still talking, “You must be so uncomfortable. Do you want water? Blink twice for yes. Or... no, wait. That’s for Morse code. Do you even know Morse code?”

God help me, I couldn’t look away.

“Anyway,” she went on, oblivious, “I named her Flan because I thought she’d be sweet and wobbly. Turns out she’s a tyrant. Hates everyone except me. She clawed my boyfriend so hard he needed stitches.”

Boyfriend?

Where the fuck is the boyfriend? Maybe, he'd be of some help.

Soup again. She didn’t even wait for permission. Just nudged it at my lips with a cheerful, “Open up, you handsome menace.”

I’d kill a man for calling me that.

But from her lips, it felt less like mockery and more like a nickname you give a raccoon who keeps breaking into your kitchen.

Menace.

Fuck.

She stirred the soup again, blowing on the spoon, and watching me like she was waiting for a sign that I’d snap, spit, bite or do anything.

But I just laid there. Helpless. Drugged out of my fucking skull.

And all I could think was:

If anyone finds out about this, I’ll have to kill them.

And maybe myself.

She smiled again, so sweet, so proud of herself.

“I knew you were a fighter.”

Lady, you have no idea.

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