Page 7 of Psychological War

Now Mila did whatever she wanted and, though Dimitri had very few hard no’s for her, whenever Mila wanted to go back to the states we went. It wasn’t hard to do because Dimitri conducted most of his drug operation from the states.

Dimitri smirked over at us, the knowing look that it would be soon. Thankfully, I always had a bag packed. Dimitri headed out of the kitchen with Tobias.

“I have a bad feeling about Luca,” Killian muttered around another cookie.

“You always have a bad feeling.” I rolled my eyes leaving him behind in the kitchen. I had a bad feeling too. I didn’t voice it though. I didn’t trust Luca, no matter how much he had helped us in the past with finding Matteo.

Everything felt off about this trip. And I didn’t like that feeling.

4

Salem

Myheartpoundedfasterand my mouth dried to cotton as I felt someone's eyes on me. But that couldn’t be possible; not when I lived alone on a farm miles away from any civilization. But I could feel eyes on me, and the hair on my arms prickled. The scar across my throat tugged at my skin, aching, causing a sharp pain in my heart.

I stopped washing the cast iron pan, turning off the water, and I stood there listening. I couldn’t hear anything, but I couldfeelthe eyes. Glancing around, nothing looked out of place. The sunlight was shining through into the dining room.

Drying my hands I reached under the kitchen island and grabbed the Glock I kept under there. Scanning the kitchen area, I checked the mag. Once I made sure it was full, I tiptoed to the doorway. My hands firmly on my gun, I searched the lower level leading to the living room.

As soon as I saw her sitting in the recliner, I lowered the gun, clicking the safety back on. Taking a deep breath I dropped the gun on the entryway table.

“You know sneaking into someone's house could really get you hurt if not killed.” Walking over to the couch I fell down. “And sneaking into my house would just get you killed.”

Aziza ignored me as she tapped away at her computer. There’s something about Aziza when she’s focused, especially when it comes to anything on her computer. She’d been my best friend since we were five. When we were in kindergarten, we were at some punk's birthday party. He started making fun of her, Aziza was too nice and just walked away. I, on the other hand, was not as nice and pushed him into the pool. Did I know he couldn’t swim? Yes. Did I care? No.

I was grounded for a month. And every day Aziza showed up asking if I was ungrounded only to be sent away. The last day I was supposed to be grounded Dada finally let me out to play. And ever since then we’d been stuck to the hip.

“You wouldn’t hurt me. You might threaten me, but you wouldn’t actually hurt me,” she smirked, not even bothering to look up from her lap. She’s also great at multitasking. She may be a natural blonde, but she was highly smart. Smarter than anyone ever gave her credit for, and she was a wizard at hacking into basically anything.

“You keep pushing your luck,” I snarked back. As much shit talk as I might do, she’s right. I might be a killer and take a lot of people. But I could never hurt her. I would never hurt her.

So as much as I would like to demand her to stop typing away on her computer and to answer the many questions sprouting around in my brain, instead, I sat back against the couch and closed my eyes. Whatever she was thinking about must be important especially if she was still ignoring me.

Aziza and I could not be more opposite if we tried. She was a natural blonde, with dark blue eyes and full lips. She stood only an inch taller than me at five foot six, and even though she hated it she was curvy. Medium size hipes, and not overly large chest. Whereas I was five foot five with small hips and small chested. Looking at me you wouldn’t have guessed I could murder men double my size.

“You have your murder face on.” Aziza broke me from my thoughts.

Glancing over her laptop was closed as she stared at me, smirking. Of course she was smirking at me. Besides our looks being completely different, she was sassy, a smart ass. I was too serious, always focusing on the task at hand.

“What murder face?” I raised my brows at her, uncertain of what face she was talking about. I knew I had that resting bitch face down. But a murder face? I certainly did not have that.

“Yes, oh yes you do, my friend.” Poking a finger at me, she said, “That face right there. You have a mean murder face going on.”

“Yeah, what do you call the face you have going on?” I asked poking at her. Sitting up I crossed my legs waiting for her to explain her reasoning.

“Wow, you’re in a sour mood.”

“And yet here you are, ignoring my sour mood.” Done with this part of the useless conversation, I stood up and headed back to the dirty dishes in my sink.

“You’re always in a sour mood.” She laughs following me into the kitchen.

“Is there a point to this conversation?” Turning the water on I continued with washing my breakfast dishes. Aziza walked over and began drying the clean ones.

“There is, but first how are you?”

Rolling my eyes, I glared over at her. How am I? I hated it when she asked me this, which she did very often. Almost every day, but most of the time she called me, blowing my phone up until I finally answered and then asked why I was angry and why I was ignoring her. It wasn’t that I was mad or trying to ignore her per se. I mean, yes, I ignored her because I didn’t need her asking me every day how I was.

It was sweet, but overwhelming.