Mafia King: A Mafia Royals Novella, Rachel Dyken [i am malala young readers edition .txt] 📗

sides as if they needed something to hold onto, and that something was all eight abs.

Then berated myself for being tempted.

He hadn’t come to save me.

He came to watch over me.

To keep me safe.

“Too late,” I wanted to say. Even though I knew it wasn’t his fault, I had to blame someone.

And I blamed him.

I blamed him as much as I wanted him.

It was a serious problem.

I stared at the shot glass in my hand and then tossed it back. “When’s dinner?”

“Am I your chef now, too?” he grunted from the floor.

I gulped, swallowing against a very dry throat. “No, G.I Joe…” I had to look away again. “I mean, when’s Family dinner? We always do Family dinner the first night.”

He jumped to his feet and grabbed a towel. “Looks like most everyone is getting room service.”

My heart dropped.

Why was I being like this?

I’d been excited for Cabo because the last time I’d been here had been right before the wedding. Things had felt normal, perfect.

I’d been normal.

Perfect.

And I’d thought…I just thought that maybe it would be healing.

And now, I was sad.

A bit heartbroken.

Oh, I knew if I called my dad, he’d be here in a heartbeat. But I also knew he and Mom needed a break, and I was a grown-ass adult.

Who, apparently, still needed way too many hugs and too much attention.

I didn’t hear Tank’s approach until he grabbed the phone next to the lamp right where I was sitting and picked it up. “Yes, reservations for dinner in thirty minutes…” His eyes met mine. “Italian sounds good. Yes, for two. Thanks.”

He hung up.

And I stared like a woman completely lost.

And maybe halfway unhinged.

“We can just have room service,” I blurted.

His smile was lethal, too pretty to be real as he leaned in and whispered, “Now, where’s the fun in that?”

I couldn’t breathe. “Y-you’re being tolerable. It’s terrifying. Why?”

“Because.”

“Tank—”

“Can’t you just say ‘thank you’ and drop it?”

“Absolutely not,” I blurted.

He groaned and ran both hands through his hair in what I could only assume was frustration. “Because you sounded sad, and it fucks with me when you sound sad, okay? Happy?” He threw the towel against the floor and then picked it up, mumbling, “Wear underwear.”

I gulped.

Because I didn’t have any thanks to my insanely horrible idea back when he’d pissed me off for the millionth time in Chicago.

And he’d think I was doing it to annoy him.

I’d just have to lie.

Knowing that he would be wondering if I listened the entire time.

My body shivered.

This was either a really bad idea or the best I’d ever had.

Dinner alone with a guy I’d wanted, then hated, only to want him again and need to hate so I felt better about myself.

The enemy.

An FBI agent, for crying out loud.

My friggin’ bodyguard!

I mean, why did I need protection in the first place?

Then again, I had been rebelling a lot lately. But I just…wanted to feel—something, anything!

Tank poked his head back around the corner. “Wear white.”

“H-huh?” I jumped in my seat. “Why?”

His eyes locked on mine. “Because you look really pretty in white, and because I said so.”

I stuck out my tongue.

“Do it again. I dare you.” He growled, eyes flashing toward my mouth as his nostrils flared as if he could smell my lust—feel my need crackling through the night air.

My stomach fluttered. Normally, I would have taunted him. This time, I decided he looked too predatory.

So, I just gulped and said, “You’re lucky I brought a white dress.”

“You’re lucky you get to keep it on,” he said before disappearing, leaving my mouth gaping open and my cheeks hot.

What in the ever-loving hell was going on?

And why did I like it so much?

Was he finally noticing me?

Or was this a game?

An angle?

Trust no one but Family.

But he was half-De Lange.

So, technically, family within the Five Families, though not related to me.

Could I trust him, though? Really trust him?

My dad had assigned him to me.

Repeatedly.

But he’d never once crossed that line.

Which begged the question…

Why now?

* * * *

“This is nice.” My voice was low as Tank helped me into my chair. A bottle of champagne was already opened and waiting for us when we got there.

And we had the entire restaurant to ourselves.

If I were a romantic, I’d say it was a date.

But we owned the place. Ergo, it was empty because we paid for it to be that way, and it wasn’t Tank who’d done it.

“Champagne?” our waiter asked.

“Yes, please.” I held up my flute.

He poured some into both of our glasses then introduced himself. “I’m Marco. I’ll be your server the entire night. Please take your time looking over the menu and drop your red napkin to the floor when you’re in need of me.”

That was new.

And this could get fun very fast.

I grinned. “Perfect.”

Tank gave me a warning stare across his menu and mouthed my name as if to scold me before I even did anything!

Marco turned.

I grabbed my napkin.

Then Tank grabbed my wrist. “Behave.”

“I was going to put it on my lap.”

“Bullshit”—he laughed—“you were going to drop it about a million times so poor Marco got his cardio in for the year.”

I sucked my lower lip. “Am I that transparent? Damn.”

“No.” His smile was deadly. “I just know you too well…remember? The old man who follows you around, that you use as a human shield?”

“Aw, you’d die for me?” I teased.

He sobered. “Without a second thought.”

Had I been holding my fork, it would have clattered against my plate only to tumble to the floor. “Because I’m your job, right? Because my dad would kill you for not protecting me?”

Please say, “no.”

Please say it’s because you couldn’t live with yourself.

Who was I kidding? He barely tolerated me.

“I don’t like that look,” Tank whispered.

“Huh? What?” I forced a smile.

“The one you just wore that looked defeated, sad. I hate it. I’ve only ever seen it a handful of times because I’m pretty sure you practice your perfect smiles so nobody sees beneath whatever you’re trying to hide, but