Home > Made for the Mafia Boss(2)

Made for the Mafia Boss(2)
Author: Cameron Hart

"Hello? What's going on in that big, beautiful brain of yours?" Freya asks as we step inside the café and find our favorite booth.

“Just thinking about books. You know, the usual,” I smile at her.

“Mmhmm,” she eyes me skeptically, but then winks. “You know, you could go out and live your own adventure sometimes, too.”

“I think we’ve both had enough adventure to last a lifetime.”

Her eyes turn soft, which is a rare look for Freya. “Hun, it’s been three years since we got out. You can’t use the past as an excuse not to have a future.”

"So you keep telling me," I mutter, opening the menu so I have something to hide behind. Unfortunately, Freya knows me too well and doesn't let me get away with it. She pulls my menu down so it's not obstructing her view of my face.

“Darlene,” she says quietly – another rare thing for Freya. “You are amazing. You are smart, beautiful, creative, and the sweetest person I know, despite the shit you went through. I know you think of yourself as some defective product of the foster care system, but I think you are stronger and more resilient because of your experience. I know I am.”

My heart squeezes painfully at her last four words. As much as it sucked being shuffled around and uprooted every few months, I know Freya had it worse. I don’t know anything about her history before she came into the foster system at thirteen, but she was a ball of anger and wild energy when I first met her. She went in and out of the system for a few years, getting tossed back to her family for a while and then thrown back into foster care. At sixteen, she finally stayed for good. Or, well, for the two years remaining until we aged out. Over those two years we became best friends and have been inseparable ever since.

“The usual, ladies?” Brenda, our favorite waitress, asks.

“You know it!” Freya chirps while I just nod my head and thank her.

Thankfully, the rest of lunch centers around lighter topics, like Freya’s latest job as a dog walker at a local animal shelter. She tends to get bored easily and hops from job to job. This one is perfect for her, though. She gets to play with animals all day and burn off her energy while also cuddling little puppies. She’s always wanted a house full of pets, probably in part because we never got the chance to have anything like that growing up.

We say our goodbyes, and Freya heads back to the shelter while I scope out the perfect spot to do my book photoshoot. I smile just thinking about my bookstagram family, which is what they’ve become for me. Read into that whatever you want about me filling a void in my life, but the community and connection I’ve found over a shared love of books means the world to me.

Some people might not get it, but I think there’s something beautiful about bonding over books. It’s more than just a common interest; it’s like we’re all going on adventures and then coming back to tell the tale in our reviews and discussions. I love getting recommendations and sharing my favorites with the world – at least my world. There’s no book shaming or negativity for the most part, just a super supportive and interactive community.

The books I just finished are a gritty shifter series that blends fantasy with dark romance. I’m in love with it and can’t wait to share my photos when I get back to my apartment tonight. I know exactly where I want to display my books – one of the abandoned shipyards tucked away on the Chicago River.

The heroine in the books first discovered her dragon shifter when he was bathing in the sea next to a similarly abandoned shipyard. Granted, the Chicago River isn't the ocean, but hey, when you live in a land-locked state, you take what you can get.

I used to come out here after school and read until dark. Maybe not the smartest or safest place for a ten-year-old, but then again, nothing really ever felt safe until I had a place of my own.

As I approach the rusted-out fence, I see not much has changed. There’s a little more decay, a few more abandoned shipping containers than I remember, but the overall vibe is the same. It’s gritty and a bit creepy, but somehow sacred. Like a graveyard.

There’s a dented and rusted out VW bug with patches of light blue – almost the exact same light blue woven throughout the covers of the six books in the series. I stack the books just so on the hood of the car and grab my phone, taking a few photos straight on. Then I change up the angle, getting the docks and water in the background.

I try a few other arrangements of the books – stacked on top of each other, then standing in a row with the spines facing out. I think the winner is five books stacked up in a spiral, with the sixth book propped up on top, opened up a bit so the pages are spread out slightly. The book on top is the first book in the series, which has the prettiest cover, in my opinion.

Satisfied with the pictures I have, I pack everything away and look out over the wasteland of scrap metal, rotted out logs, and garbage. Despite the rough surroundings, the water is beautiful and carries a soft, cool breeze that washes over me. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, letting the refreshing air fill my lungs.

Then I hear voices. Angry voices.

My heart thumps in my chest and my skin prickles as beads of sweat form on my palms and forehead. Who else would be out here? Probably not other bookstagrammers, I’m guessing.

I start to look for the source of the noise but decide better of it. What am I going to do if I find whoever is arguing, anyway? Nothing. I don't do conflict, especially with strangers.

Turning on my heel, I hightail it out of there as fast as my short legs will carry me. My foot catches on a discarded bumper and I go tumbling down, landing on my hands and knees. The sting of rocks and dirt bite my skin, but I scramble upright and slip through the fence. Only when I’m a good two blocks away from the shipyard do I finally slow down to catch my breath.

I lean against the side of a brick building, shielding myself from the prying eyes of other pedestrians. Clutching my books to my chest, I shake my head and try to get my thundering heart under control. I’m sure it was nothing back there. Or, rather, nothing concerning me. What am I so worried about? Maybe Freya is right, I’ve been reading too many books. This isn’t one of my thriller novels or murder mysteries. There’s no threat to my life. I’m just a shy, frumpy librarian. A stereotype if there ever was one.

Finally satisfied with my little pep-talk, I step out of the shadows of the alley I've been hiding in. I only get one red sneaker onto the sidewalk before I feel a hand wrap around my bicep and pull me backward. I'm about to yell, but then another hand covers my mouth and nose.

Holy crap, am I being mugged?

I'm more worried about my books being damaged than I am about a thief stealing the ten dollars I have in my wallet. All of these thoughts flash through my head a split-second before I'm turned around and shoved into the brick wall.

Three large men tower over me. I whimper into the hand covering my mouth, but I don't try to escape. Instead of a fight or flight response, I have a freeze response when it comes to danger.

“No noise,” the man covering my mouth snarls. I nod my head against his hand, trying to control my trembling limbs. “Take her bag. Search it,” he barks at the man to his left. “Pull the car around to the end of the alley,” he commands the man to his right.

Then his gaze turns to me. Dark, sinister eyes meet mine. He quirks an eyebrow up at me before slowly removing his hand. I think for a moment he's going to let me go after his friend goes through my stuff and finds I have nothing of value to them. Instead, he shoves a cloth in my mouth. I can't help the yelp that forces its way out of my mouth.

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