Page 38 of The One Night Match (Mafia Matchmaker #1)
THIRTY-EIGHT
RILEY
T he mind-blowing orgasm only holds my anxiety at bay for so long before I’m right back where I started with a boulder sitting on my chest, making every breath feel like its very own marathon.
Cruz remains by my side as what must amount to the entire De Luca organization comes to learn everything they can about the woman who married their leader.
Some ask standard questions like what my favorite movie is, how I like my eggs, if I prefer summer or winter. While others choose to get philosophical. Do I think stealing to feed your family is inherently wrong? Would I kill one person to save ten?
It probably wouldn’t be so bad if we stayed in one lane for more than a question or two, but as it stands, the topics are bouncing around like they’re trying to throw me off guard.
Which they probably are.
The worst part, though, is that Cruz can’t intervene. He can’t do anything to stop their too-personal lines of questioning, and it’s wearing on him almost as much as it is me.
“And what would you say is your biggest weakness as a leader?” Monica sneers at me.
Despite the fact that everyone who came before her has asked their one or two questions and then has allowed the person behind them to take their turn, this is her fourth question, each one more irritating than the last.
I plaster a fake smile on my face and lean into Cruz. “Hmm, my greatest weakness as a leader.” I tap my chin. “Probably my short temper when it comes to people trying to steal my husband.”
Cruz snickers, his hand tightening around my waist.
Monica’s face turns a deeper shade of red, but my smile never drops. Every question that has been asked of me, I’ve answered to the best of my ability, but not with this bitch. She’s getting every bit of sarcasm and snark I can conjure.
Her stepbrother stands behind her, the hatred in his cold blue eyes making me more uneasy than I would like to admit. His eyes haven’t moved from me the whole time they’ve been standing in front of us, and it’s beginning to make my anxiety peak.
Monica huffs, her fake lips pursing before she looks up at Timothy. “Ask your questions.”
“How much to get a ride on the new queen?” He leers.
I open my mouth to reply, but I’m quickly cut off by Cruz’s low growl. I squeeze his hand, trying to settle him without words.
Timothy isn’t the first asshole to make a misogynistic remark since we’ve been standing here, but he is the first to be so upfront about it.
I smile at him. “I think I’ve got all the man I can handle with this one here.”
It’s far more diplomatic than I want to be, but snapping back won’t do me any good in this case.
Cruz has been tight-lipped about the situation with Dennis, but I’ve put together enough pieces to know Timothy is more than likely part of the threat to my life, and antagonizing him will only make matters worse.
He glares at Cruz, the hatred toward my husband clear. “I’ve been trying to call my dad, but he just texts back his updates. It’s unlike him because the old fucker hates texting.”
Cruz shrugs. “He’s called me a few times. Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to you.”
The tips of Timothy’s ears turn a bright shade of red, giving away his anger despite his face remaining perfectly unbothered.
“Dennis never ignores Tim’s calls,” Monica says. “And he always answers me.”
“I’m sure he does,” Cruz replies. “But unfortunately, I don’t know why he’s choosing to text.
He’ll be home in a few days if his reports are anything to go by, and then you can ask him yourself.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, Riley has been on her feet for hours answering questions.
She needs a drink and something to eat.”
He steers me toward the table at the front of the room and pulls out my chair for me, allowing me to sink into it before I collapse.
He must have noticed how much I was shifting from foot to foot, the pain in the balls of my feet getting to the point of agony. And don’t get me started on my toes. If I thought it was possible for them to fall off, I’d be seriously worried right now.
I allow my eyes to fall closed as I take stock of myself, an exercise I learned in therapy after the Jeremy incident.
My muscles are sore, and my head is pounding, but the steady presence of Cruz has made it easier than I expected to push my anxiety to the side.
He takes his seat beside me and easily drags my chair around until my legs are caught between his. His hand cups my cheek as he looks me over. “You doing okay, Kitten?”
“I only ever have to do this once, right? Like, this isn’t a yearly thing where I get grilled by every Tom, Dick, and Harry?”
His amused smirk tugs up into a full-blown smile, and it takes me a second to realize why. “Worrying about this being a yearly thing implies you’re planning on sticking around past the three-month mark.”
I drag my bottom lip between my teeth to fight the smile tugging at my lips, but it’s pointless. “Maybe I am.” I shrug.
The genuine happiness staring back at me through dark eyes makes my chest clench, and I lean into the hand cupping my cheek, my heart fuller than I knew it could be.
“It was the tattoo that did it, wasn’t it?”
I laugh, the sound getting lost in the sea of voices around us. “I mean, it would be rude to leave a man who tattooed my name right above his penis. But no. It was actually Mr. Whiskers that sealed the deal.”
Cruz’s body shakes with the force of his own laugh. “I knew I let that little fucker stay for a reason. It just took a few years to realize why.”