I Saved the Mafia Boss—Now I'm His Obsession. novel Chapter 8

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

The room smelled like blood and something warm and sweet, cinnamon, maybe. My mouth was fucking dry.

And she was standing there.

Just like the night I broke into her apartment.

Socks. Frozen. Amber eyes were wide like I’d come back from the dead.

She looked like someone trying very hard not to panic.

Good instinct.

“Don’t move,” I said, I felt my voice scrape up my throat, it didn’t even sound like mine anymore.

She blinked up at me, clearly still reeling from the fact that the half-dead body she’d been spoon-feeding soups to was now vertical and talking.

I didn’t know where I was, not exactly. I remembered passing the fuck out. The cold. Her face above mine. Then blackout. Then flashes. Sheets. Heat. Hands. Her hands.

She was the girl with the soft eyes.

The one who stitched me up.

“Do you have a phone?” I asked.

She blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her lips parted like she wanted to explain, but all she did was step back.

Slender neck. Delicate collarbones. Braid hanging over one shoulder. She was wearing socks with tiny alpacas on them. Her sweater was three sizes too big.

“You shouldn’t be standing,” she finally said, voice a hushed tremble.

“I’m aware.”

I reached up, grabbed the gauze across my cheekbone, and yanked. A hint of pain ripped through the nerves. The bandage came off, taking some skin with it. Whatever. I’d had worse.

She gasped.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to—Jason said to—”

I snapped my eyes to hers.

She shut up immediately.

“Phone,” I said again.

Her expression shifted to something halfway between guilty and terrified.

And then came the babbling.

“Oh! Um... so, funny story, I was making you cinnamon oat-milk because I figured warm drinks are comforting and I swear I put the phone on the counter, but I also put the pot on the stove and then there was this meow from Flan, and anyway, long story short...”

She held up the phone, it was wet, dripping with... milk?

I stared.

“It, uh... fell into the pot of boiling oat-milk. It’s kind of... cooked now?” she added, giving it a hopeless little shake.

There were a lot of things I’d trained for. But this? Fuck, this wasn’t one of them.

Her voice dropped to a mumble, “And I, um... I don’t really have the money to replace it or get it fixed right now.”

The device slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a wet plop.

She looked up at me like she expected mercy.

Bad bet.

I exhaled through my nose and shoved a hand into my pocket. Nothing. Not even lint.

Motherfucker.

“Those fuckers took my wallet,” I muttered, grinding the words between my teeth.

She looked at me, blinking slowly, like something holy had just clicked into place, “Wait—what? They robbed you?”

I stayed quiet because in the list of shit I cared about, getting robbed didn’t even crack the top five. But the way my jaw tightened must’ve told her something she needed to believe in.

Her voice softened even more than it already was, “Oh no... is that why they hurt you? That’s horrible. I just, I hate that. When people hurt others over money. It’s so wrong.”

I looked at her.

She looked like she genuinely meant every word, like it broke her heart a little just thinking about it.

Big amber eyes. Frizzy curls. Bare feet on linoleum. A sweatshirt two sizes too big. It was like the universe wrapped her in bubble wrap and forgot to tell her the world eats girls like her for breakfast.

“I knew you weren’t the bad guy,” she said, finally stepping into the room like we were old friends catching up over coffee.

“Jason and Carlos kept going, ‘Don’t get involved, Maddie. He could be dangerous, Maddie,’ yada yada but you didn’t feel dangerous. You felt... hurt. And you didn’t scare me. Not really.”

She said it like she was proud of herself. As if trusting me was some kind of moral badge she could pin to her cardigan.

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify