Mr. Mafia, Your Baby Girl is Six Years Older Than Me Chapter 03

Mr. Mafia, Your Baby Girl is Six Years Older Than Me Chapter 03

Evelyn’s POV

I pulled my hand free, a little baffled.

I used to cling to him, sure. Back then, I’d send him a hundred messages a day—fifty on a slow one. His encrypted inbox was a wall of green bubbles, all from me. He’d reply when he felt like it. Or not at all.

And now he was asking why I hadn’t checked in?

I let out a dry laugh. “Didn’t you say I shouldn’t disturb you?”

He blinked, caught off guard. A flicker of guilt crossed his face.

He had said that. But seeing me actually follow through, something about it rubbed him wrong. He couldn’t even explain why.

“This is different.”

Olivia looped her arm through his, cutting through the tension.

“Don Anderson, Madre just got back. She’s bound to be in a mood. Don’t grill her like this.”

“I made soup. Madre Anderson, have some.”

She turned toward the kitchen, grabbing a piece of cloth off the counter to use as a makeshift trivet. She bunched it up like a rag.

The fabric unfolded slightly as she moved—and I caught a glimpse of the pattern.

My breath stopped.

That was my mother’s. A French antique tapestry. Her last piece of work.

My eyes went wide. I lunged forward and ripped it out of her hands.

The cloth jerked. The soup bowl tipped. Scalding liquid sloshed all over Olivia’s arm.

She yelped, her eyes flooding with tears that spilled down her cheeks in seconds.

“Madre Anderson! If you didn’t want my soup, you could’ve just said so!”

“I apologized for everything that happened before! Why won’t you leave me alone?”

James grabbed Olivia’s wrist, inspecting the pink flush on her skin like it was a third-degree burn.

“It’s red. Does it hurt?”

She buried her face in his chest, sniffling.

“I don’t know why Madre treats me like this. My hands are rough—they’re only good for labor. They’re not as delicate as hers. But that doesn’t mean she can humiliate me like this.”

James murmured reassurances, stroking her hair. Then he turned to me, his eyes hard as iron.

“Evelyn. You’re out of control. Do you want to kill her?”

I didn’t answer. I just stared at the tapestry in my hands.

It used to be pristine. Now it was stained with grease and oil. Torn.
Ragged. Beyond repair.

I forced myself to take one deep breath after another, soothing my frayed nerves.

I spread the cloth out in front of him. My voice came out shaking.

“Do you remember what this is?”

He barely glanced at it. His tone was razor-sharp with impatience.

“A ratty old blanket. And you hurt Olivia over that? Evelyn, do you even have a conscience?”

I laughed bitterly.

He’d forgotten, apparently.

This was my mother’s last embroidery—two lovebirds nestled together, wings touching. Her final blessing for us.

Before she died, she held my hand and said:

“Evelyn. James is a good man. I can see he loves you truly.”

“When I’m gone, I’ll rest easy knowing he’s taking care of you.”

After she passed, the Clarke family fell apart. My biological father ran off with his mistress and drained every account. Left me with nothing.

I was an orphan, abandoned.

And Don Anderson took my hand. Walked me out of that cold, empty Clarke manor step by step.

He said: “Evelyn. Don’t be afraid. You have me. I’ll give you a home.”

The memory of that love was so bright. So brilliant. That I couldn’t let go even when it started to rot.

But now—the two lovebirds were torn apart by a gash.

And him and me—we’d reached the end of the road.

“You mute? Say something. Apologize to Olivia.”

The tapestry was yanked from my hands.

I snapped back to the present. Looked at the mess on the floor. Looked at Olivia sobbing in his arms.

“Why should I apologize?”

“She’s been the other woman for how long now? Did she ever apologize to me?”

“And you—you cheated on me with the maid behind my back. Did you apologize?”

“Or is this the part where I refuse, and you throw me back in the correctional facility? How long this time?”