Sold: Dark Mafia Romance

I chuck the box back into the hole and cover it with the fake flooring before rushing out and shutting the door behind me. I run back toward the main area where I was doing laps and continue doing them so as not to draw attention to myself.

Right as I turn the corner, Mario and Marcello emerge from the rose garden. That’s odd. I knew Marcello had left the mansion early this morning with his mafia buddy Claudio, but I never saw them come back. How long have they been out here?

Mario suddenly leans over with his hands on his knees and has a coughing fit. He seems like he’s really struggling to breathe. Drops of blood land on the ground in front of him. Marcello immediately leaps to him to stop him from falling over and helps him to a wooden seat a few feet ahead. He keeps his arm around Mario, and gently pats him on the back while the older man coughs into a napkin.

Marcello seems so gentle around him. Almost as if he’s taking care of an old friend, someone very special to him. I’ve never seen him so tender before. And as I stand near the fountain in front of the house, I choke up a little.

Maybe there’s a soft side to this man after all.

Suddenly, Marcello looks my way, and I gasp, feeling caught in the act of snooping. I didn’t mean to, it just happened. But the look on his face is no longer as soft as it was when Mario almost collapsed. No, it’s more as if Marcello is the one feeling caught in the act.

Mario follows his gaze until he spots me too, and my cheeks flush in embarrassment. Marcello beckons me to come closer.

Every step I take, the gravel crackles underneath my weight, breaking the silence between the three of us. I know Marcello is upset. He scowls at me as I approach, and it makes my stomach churn.

When I get close enough, he holds up a hand. “Were you spying on us?” he asks.

“I wasn’t—”

He silences me with another hand. “Don’t make excuses.”

I frown. “I was exercising.”

He cocks his head. “But you snooped, regardless.”

“I didn’t even know you were here,” I retort, putting my hand against my side. “Sorry.”

Mario clears his throat. “I think I’m going to leave you two to it.” An obvious wise old man’s snort follows. He gets up and walks off, back toward the home, while Marcello’s eyes continue to bore into mine.

We stare at each other for what feels like minutes but is probably only seconds until Mario disappears behind the doors. Marcello’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he pats the seat beside him.

“Sit,” he says in a tired voice. “C’mon … I don’t bite.”

I contemplate denying him, but then I wonder what good it would do when I’m being kept a prisoner. Besides, sitting never hurt anyone. So I sit down next to him and look him in the eyes.

“I lied,” he says, leaning sideways to me.

My heart palpitates from the implications of what he’s about to say.

Could this be the moment? Is he going to admit he knows about my parents? That he killed them?

“I do bite. But only when tempted,” he adds.

My worry deflates into stupid laughter.

“What?” he asks.

“That’s what you wanted to say?” I make a face at him.

“No. But it’s a good ice breaker,” he replies.

I shake my head. “What do you want, Marcello? I already apologized for snooping.”

“I know,” he says. “I just need to find out something.”

Find out something? That can’t have anything to do with my parents. But what else could this be about? Unless … he has feelings for me?

He turns his head away from me and stares off into the distance for a moment. What does he mean? He’s so cryptic all of a sudden when he was so clear about wanting me before.

What changed?

“You were pacing around my room … before …”

He looks at me again in that same way as before back when he was in my room, kissing me, and it makes my throat clamp up.

I rub my lips together and tilt my head. “Was there something you wanted to ask?”

I know he wasn’t there to tell me the truth, but I can at least try to peel it out of him a little.

“I was …” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

I let out a sigh and get up. “I don’t know why you asked me to sit. This conversation is going nowhere. Just like the rest of them. You keep me in the dark, but you want me around for some reason, and I don’t understand why. What makes me so special?”

“I want to protect you,” he says, clenching his fist.

A mobster, protecting me?

“From what?” I retort a little too loud.