Page 3 of Mafia King: Matteo (Borrelli Mafia #1)

“He’s fine. Nothing a heart attack can’t cure,” she teases, dismissing my concerns.

The anger in his voice is unusual, even for him.

However, it’s been months since I temporarily shacked up with them for my safety during the wild adventures of Izzy discovering her past. Then, there was the explosion at her wedding.

I must be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.

I’m in the letdown phase after all the excitement this year. Maybe this is why I’m bored.

If Dad’s yelling is any indication, I’d say things are not going his way this week.

I wonder if I should use my real name on a job application.

I need Kirill to look over my resume. Hell, I thought I’d be planning my wedding.

It’s all my parents talked about when I was in college.

They made it sound like going to school was getting in the way of their plans for me.

I’m not oblivious to the fact I’ve been raised like a fatted calf, and the slaughter is imminent. It’s unnerving not to be in control of my own life.

Izzy was terrified of my father when she lived with me. I’m not surprised. I’m sure he is to be feared. To me, he’s Dad. I’ve never known him to be sentimental or affectionate. Maybe this is why I pursue men and play their games.

I’m seeking an all-consuming love from a man who will make me feel it in my bones because I’m numb inside.

To my peers, I am enviable. I have everything a woman would want and more.

But it’s all material items. Sure, men flirt with me, and I turn heads when I enter a room.

Izzy assumes it’s my looks. I’ll always be seen as my father’s daughter.

I associate the attention I get has more to do with my father’s position than my big boobs and long legs.

Izzy tells me I’m beautiful. She doesn’t know that I compare myself to women in fashion magazines.

I wish I had higher cheekbones and a thinner waistline.

I already fill my lips. It’s exhausting how I constantly learn new makeup tricks to achieve different looks from online tutorials.

I should have Dad sponsor a makeup line so I can cash in on my time using the products I research.

Who am I?

More importantly, who am I trying to be? Am I on an insatiable hunt for something unobtainable?

There is a hole inside of me I can’t explain.

Spending money is only a vehicle that fills it temporarily.

Not having a relationship with the men I fuck appears to widen the chasm inside me.

I’ve learned this because I find more peace in being alone than bouncing from one man to the next. I’m not satisfied even if I orgasm.

I also know that the dark beast inside me will emerge one day. I have no idea what that means. I assume I should make peace and accept myself for who I am, or I will fall into the black abyss. I don’t want to lose myself to the darkness.

“I miss Izzy,” I state.

“She’s an important friend to have,” Mom states as if I won the lottery. “Who could have guessed she was a mafia princess twice over, and that she was penniless!”

The condo isn’t the same without her. Now that she’s met the love of her life, I’m a bit jealous.

I never thought I wanted a serious boyfriend, but the men I’ve been with don’t excite me.

I get more satisfaction from the collection of dildos that I keep stashed in my nightstand.

Perhaps it’s the reason I like the sex clubs.

There is a lot to be said for a handsome stranger manhandling me.

Being single in the city should be a dream come true. But my secret desire is to belong. I want someone I can trust. I desire a man who has my back and isn’t afraid to stand up to me. I would love a companion who willingly goes home with me for the holidays and is not intimidated by my father.

I’m an only child. I’m used to doing things alone, but I’ve grown tired of it. A job would help fill my days. Maybe I’ll make new friends and meet men who aren’t in the mafia. I don’t need to tell them about my family. It helps that my last name is not uncommon among Russians.

I’ve never had a serious relationship. Most of my friends assume that men are lining up to date me or marry me.

I refuse to have sex with my best male friend, Kirill.

We’re close because we’re both single and shared the past year hanging out together.

He works for my father, handling the inner workings that only he and my father would know about, and, of course, the Don.

Banging each other would be like incest. And I’m afraid it might jeopardize our friendship. My generation is more into sex. It seems men want to do it rough and get on with their day. Some expect me to put out on a first date, and if not, then definitely before the third date.

They never stick around long after they learn who I am. I think they are afraid my father would shoot them if they knew that we were together. Hence, I’ve never reached the envied hand-holding phase.

I’m opinionated, but I don’t need to comment on every detail in life. I want a man who knows his mind.

Am I asking for too much?

Having a man hold my hand because he wants to mark his territory would be a turn-on. I fantasize about lying in bed on Sunday with a man who isn’t afraid to snuggle me. It wouldn’t be a bother. If anything, I’d like it.

“Izzy’s great. I’ll see her later this week.”

“That’s right, Roman is getting married soon. How is that going?”

“Good, as far as I know. Izzy is having a baby in a few months. That will mean I won’t see her as much.”

“Well, that’s how it goes. You need to make new friends. You’re so pretty. It should be easy for you.”

“No, it’s not easy. I have a tough time trusting anyone.”

“I’m sure it will keep you safe,” she replies without concern.

My family isn’t overly endearing with words or affection. They never say, “I love you.” I think my father compensates for this with the generous allowance he gives me and the fact that he rarely complains about my spending on designer collections.

When I started school, I gave up on expecting any sign of affection from my parents. I noticed other kids getting hugs as their parents dropped them off. My parents love me, but if I have kids, I will smother them with affection.

Maybe I’m just being overly emotional. I called Izzy when she was at the engagement party in the city because I was having a panic attack.

The attacks started before we graduated from the Fashion Institute, when I thought I was being followed.

I kept this information to myself. Everyone considers me impervious to fear and thinks I’m made of steel.

When we figured out Izzy was being hunted, and that we were helpless without Dmitry’s help. I realized how much of my life was out of my control.

I’ve lived on a need-to-know basis for my protection all my life.

I am clueless about the inner workings of the family.

It’s expected that I accept this. And I do take it—mostly.

But my patience is growing thin. My birth dictates that my life be lived inside this family of criminals.

I now fear the unknown. What if I’m kidnapped? What if I’m hit by a bus tomorrow?

I’m relieved Izzy gets to live here and hasn’t been shipped off to Russia. I can’t wait to hear her updates on what is happening in her world.

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