Maid for the Mafia by Jaylee

Chapter 112

Is it tomorrow yet?

**ROMANY**

When I wake up I'm in Alex's bed with the covers pulled up to my chin. My body is nude, I can feel the soft drag of his sheets when I try and move my legs. But there is no one around me, although when I strain my ears to listen, I hear a familiar voice issuing threats from down the hallway.

*Mickey?*

*Mickey is here.*

I try to sit up, but my body protests. For some reason it feels like I've been sleeping for days, but that can't be right, can it?

*Oh my God! What if it is right? What if I somehow missed my meetup with Santos' men?*

"Shit!" I grumble as I straighten my back against the headboard of the four poster monstrosity that is Alex's pillar of rest. My breasts spill free of the covering and I'm glad to see that I was wrong, I'm not *completely* nude after all. Some kind soul took the liberty of dressing me in fresh underwear at least.

*But why?*

*Oh yeah. Dana.*

The memory of her face as she bled out flashes before my eyes and I resist the urge to smile. *Again.*

*Who the hell am I becoming?*

me, the concern in his eyes wrenches something in my chest. He shakes his head helplessly. "Doll," he whispers, stumbling to a stop in the doorway. He was obviously wearing a suit when he got here, but he must have shed the jacket and run his hands through his hair a thousand and one times. He looks like he's coming

also looks

and gathers me in his arms. His scent envelops my body and I lean forward to rest my head on his shoulder while he takes a seat on the bed. "You've finally stopped

tomorrow yet?" I ask him, as one hand strokes up and down my back soothingly.

to look at him, I ask, "How long

eyes on my lips. "A few hours. That's all." *Well, thank

breath. *Good, not too late

vibrant green eyes muting. "What is the last

of my memories, Dana's shocked face emerges, then I work a little harder, blinking a few times as

Damien carrying me to the

cried silently and shivered in the warm water of

dressing me in

a

must

my eyebrows drawing together in worry. "He was shot!

treated too." Mickey's eyes narrow, and one hand traces over my knuckles. "Why would you bruise your hands, doll?

smiles, his forearms flexing as he squeezes my palm in his.

moment doesn't last. The sound of my phone

back as his gaze

time

I repeat through

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