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“I’m hungry, Rapunzel-boy.”
LMAO
Or should I— Ouch. “I want to eat, Rapunzel-boy.” Lucia grins at me while tugging on my hair.
“Um . . . Those two don’t go together. And I don’t think there’s enough nutritional value in cookies. I mean . . . they aren’t good for babies.”
pls 😭
The skin on his chin and cheeks seems mangled somehow, which makes it hard to pinpoint his age, but everything else about him tells me he’s young. Probably midtwenties. He doesn’t seem to be carrying any weapons, but Kai’s gaze is fixed on him as if this man is the one who presents the biggest threat and not a platoon of armed mercenaries. “You’re late, Rafael,”
like.......the rafael from the next series.....?
I barely refrain from recoiling. His face is a mess of scars and battered skin, as if a wild animal had mauled him. He probes me with his penetrating gaze, with eyes that appear to be his only undamaged feature.
“No idea. Our paths crossed a few times over the years. I first met Rafael while doing a job for the Camorra syndicate about a decade ago, maybe a little less than that. He was still a kid, eighteen perhaps, and his face was normal. When I ran into him again a couple of years later, he was like that,” Kai says and ushers me toward his car.
“That camera I shot? I’m afraid I missed, baby.”
“Sienna,” Ajello says into the phone. “Looks like you forgot to mention that your husband is doing business with the Boston faction now.”
“I told you what I think about your spying schemes, Ajello!” A growly male voice booms from the phone’s speaker. The man is yelling so loud I can hear every single word. “If you have a question for me, you know where to find me. Call my wife again, and I’ll rip off your fingers and shove them up your ass. Maybe then you’ll figure out what buttons to press!”
“No, Milene. We’re not getting another cat. Two is more than enough . . . No, we’re not getting a hamster, either . . . I know they are small. It’s still a no, cara mia . . . Yes, I’m a very bad person. Love you, too.”
One is leaning on the hood of a beat-up SUV with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s dressed in dark-gray cargo pants and a black T-shirt. Every visible inch of his skin, except his face and neck, is covered in ink. His hair is the palest shade of blond. The other man is wearing a bespoke black suit that fits his large frame like a glove. His face is set in a dark scowl as he drums his fingers on the roof of his black sedan.
“You know, I only had one priest at my wedding,” he says. “Three makes it so much merrier. When you guys are done here, I’m taking them to Chicago to have them marry me and my wife all over again. Angelina is going to love it . . .”
Without breaking our locked stare, I push the gun I’ve left lying on the table toward the priest. “That’s my Bible. Proceed.”
“Fuck, Mazur,” Sergei exclaims. “Your priest number three just fainted!”
The car stops a dozen feet from the stone steps. The driver’s door opens and a man steps out. It takes me a moment to recognize him without his prison uniform. He’s wearing a stylish gray suit and a perfectly pressed white shirt underneath, just as he was the night the police led him out of our home. But it’s the only similarity to that twenty-year-old man from so long ago.
“Zahara,” Massimo says in a soft voice, so uncharacteristic for him.
“Yes. That maniac hijacked someone’s entire wedding for us.”
“Yes. That asshole downstairs married his wife again, using our priests and the judge. There’s no way I’m letting fucking Belov have more weddings than us, tiger cub.”
