Falling For The Mob

12 Gross and Purple

Sam

She takes a step away from me, then stares at the wall behind me. Something is off about her.

"Zoë?"

It's possible that my invasion of her apartment is unwelcome. If so, she would never be blunt enough to admit it. She needs me gone. Curse Addy for putting me in this situation.

"I'm fine," she quickly says before a strained polite smile appears. Normally I wouldn't care if my presence is making someone uncomfortable, but this whole 'friends' arrangement we have seems to lack a clear set of rules.

The silence is deafening as I fight the urge to down the contents of my glass and leave. Every other time we're alone, she instigates conversation. This is a painful reminder of my inability to function as a normal human being.

"You must have better things to do than entertain me. I'll be leaving soon."

"No, Sam, don't leave. I was just lost in thought for a moment."

By now, I can recognize when she's being genuine. She's terrible at lying or even hiding her emotions, for that matter. "It was not my intention to invade your space. Addy was..."

"I know." She chuckles. "But two more weeks to go, are you excited?"

Addy's worries were eventually justified. The baby is still breached, and she's forced to schedule a C-section. No, I am not excited—far from it.

Her warm hand touches my arm. "They're both going to be fine. I'll be there every step of the way, and I'm good at my job. I promise."

Based on my research, I also concluded that she's the best option in the city, possibly even the state. Despite this, I will never be able to forgive her if anything goes wrong. Even if it's an accident.

Her eyes show nothing but warmth and kindness, yet it still makes me unsettled. Shooting out of my seat, I quickly adjust my shirt and straighten my back.

"I should be heading out. Thank you for the drink."

Without giving her time to respond, I make my way out the door, slamming it harder than intended.

Without a particular destination in mind, I press down on the gas pedal and let my hands guide me toward my childhood home.

My father must have been alerted, as I find him walking down the staircase when I enter the foyer.

"Samantha, is everything alright? What are you doing here at this hour?"

After planting a kiss on my forehead, he studies my expression. Strangely, I hope he can tell me what's going on in my own mind. We are very much alike, we react to stress in the same way. Surely, he must have experienced something similar.

Unfortunately, he finds nothing and turns toward the bar. He pours two glasses of bourbon and places one in my hand. Not my preference, but anything is better than nothing.

"You seem to be in need of a vacation."

For five years, I've successfully balanced my two lives, but it seems we all underestimated the impact my announcement would have on crime in this city.

As expected, Sam Claymore was much more intimidating as a faceless man, and as a result, the death threats have tripled over the last four months. I am well protected, as my cousins have dealt with everything swiftly and mercilessly. I would have preferred to handle things myself—nothing would send a clearer message than having me slice their throats—but again, I was forbidden.

"What makes you say that?"

"You had the same expression your mother used to. Her skin was always flawless—no blemishes, no wrinkles—except for that same thin, frustrated line she'd get on her forehead when stressed."