Good Girl: Valetti Crime Family (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) by Willow Winters Page B

right setup and connections, there’s a shit-ton of money to be made.
    “A chef sounds nice.” She shrugs her shoulders and takes another bite.
    “I like cooking. But it’s nice every once in a while.”
    I huff a humorless laugh. “I can grill, and I can bake, but I tend to burn shit on the stove.”
    She looks at me with a wide smile as she asks, “But it’s harder to bake, isn’t it?”
    “Nah,” I lean farther back and rest my back against the headboard, “Baking is just mixing up a simple recipe and you pop it in the oven.”
    “Oh, do you mean like Betty Crocker?” she asks, and I look at her with confusion.
    “Of course, what did you think I meant?”
    She sets the empty bowl down and tries to cover her mouth with her arm as she laughs while shaking her head. As I watch her shoulders rise and fall slightly with the sweet sounds of soft laughter, I realize how easy the atmosphere is between us.
    This is Ava. I like this side to her.
    “What kind of baking do you do?” I ask. I just want to keep the conversation going. I want this feeling to last.
    “Like, fresh morning biscuits--” She looks reminiscent, and I interrupt to be an ass.
    “They have those in a can. They’re called Pillsbury.” She outright laughs and swings her hand at me, playfully smacking me on the arm.
    It triggers her, though. Her face falls and all sense of humor is gone. It’s as though I had the real Ava to myself, if only for a small moment. But now she’s gone. Replaced by the shell of a woman.
    “Ava,” I say, as I reach out to her. Her eyes dart to mine, but her body is tense and I can feel waves of anxiety pouring off of her. My hand lands on her thigh and I decide to keep things light. “You have to know what Pillsbury biscuits are, don’t you?”
    She quickly responds, “Yes. I’ve seen them before.” Her body stays tense as though she’s expecting a harsh reaction. It brings me back to reality. She’s so fucking hurt.
    It breaks my heart. I clear my throat and lean back against the headboard, patting the seat next to me. She obediently scoots closer.
    “You’re hurting. I want to help you,” I say simply. I know the only way to help her is to make sure she never goes back to them. I know that. And I want to make sure that happens. I question if she’ll ever be alright, but a feeling deep in my gut tells me I can heal her. I can take away her pain and make everything alright.
    “Tell me what I can do, Ava.” It’s a command. It may be fucked up to take advantage of her submission. I don’t feel comfortable pushing her to talk. But I have no problems pushing to find out how I can help her.
    Her sad blue eyes look up at me as the corners of her plump lips tilt down. Her lips part and then close as her eyes fall. This is my Ava. I know this is her because she’s giving me emotion, even if it is sadness. I pull her small body into my lap, wrapping my arms around her waist and she melts in my arms. Her hands grip my back, and she holds onto me tighter as I run my hand down her back with soothing strokes.
    I hear her say something, but I’m not sure what she says since she’s so quiet. I pull back to look at her, but she keeps the side of her head pressed to my chest and her fingertips dig into my back.
    “I’ve got you, baby. Just tell me what to do.” I run my hand along her back, hoping this is helping her. I was wrong before, with Felipe, but this can’t be anything but good for her.
    “Please,” she barely whispers, “keep holding me.” Hearing her plea breaks my heart. I kiss her hair and rest my chin on her head. I hold her close and keep rubbing her back.
    If she wants, I’ll do this all night.
    Feeling her in my arms reminds me of the last time I held my mother. She didn’t hold me back, though. They’d already killed her. The memory flashes before my eyes.
    The car slams into another vehicle. The bullets fly past me, barely missing me. But my father clutches his chest, each bullet