Mafiosa Bonus POVs

Jafar (Millie POV)

I've always considered myself to be a kind of British Taylor Swift. Minus the singing talent. And the business acumen. And the money. But in all the ways that matter, me and Tay Tay are basically the same. We both love cats. We share the same middle name: Alison. We both love dating hot boys. We can both rock a cute fringe. We both love our friends more than anything. And at the risk of sounding like my crazy grandfather Neville, we're both good girls. I'm a good girl. I'm definitely not the sort of girl who hangs around with mobsters, and I'm certainly not the kind of girl who will comfortably sit in a room where there is a loaded gun on show.

'Can you remove your gun from the kitchen table, Nic?' I jabbed my finger at the gun, as though to make it disappear.

Nic was leaning back in his chair, one leg kicked over the other. 'Why?'

'It doesn't go with the tablecloth,' I said. 'And also, I'd like to have a moment where I'm not actively being reminded of my own fragile mortality.'

Nic's smile was lazy. 'I'm not even touching it.'

'Nicoli.' Luca's voice was scratchy, the single word – a warning. He was standing by the fridge, a cup of freshly brewed coffee in his hand. It was probably the tenth one he had drunk since arriving late yesterday evening. He had come over right after the hospital discharged him, his arms still covered in bandages, his face wearing the strain of the night before. Nic arrived early this morning, looking like he had just strolled out of a day spa.

'Fine.' Nic slid the gun off the table and stowed it in the waistband of his jeans. Fleetingly, I imagined a world where I could push that much authority into one single word and have my brother instantly obey me. An existence where I could say 'Alex' all serious and dangerous, and he would make me a sandwich or do my washing or carry me upstairs if I was feeling lazy. 'Happy now?' Nic asked me.

'Ecstatic.' I bared all my teeth. 'You do spoil me, Nic.'

Luca laughed into his coffee mug. I had come to like Luca. Wait. Maybe 'like' is too strong a word. I had come to tolerate Luca. I mean, he could clearly appreciate my hilariousness, and he also knew when to keep his pretty little mouth shut.

'Can I make a sandwich?' Nic asked.

'You just had a sandwich!' I said, incredulous. 'And when you got here this morning you were demolishing a giant breakfast burrito!'

'I'm still hungry.'

I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and threw it at him. 'Here. Don't say I never did anything for you.'

Nic made a face and put the apple on the table where his gun had been a minute ago. 'Just so you know, I find this as threatening as the gun.'

Luca dropped into the chair across from his brother. He set his mug down – drained again. There were still circles under his eyes. He had tossed and turned on the couch all night – I could tell by his hair. He looked exhausted. Then again, 'Exhaustion' for Luca Falcone is still 'Equator-Levels of Hot' for normal people so I didn't feel that bad for him.

He frowned into his mug. 'I might make more coffee.'

'Do you want me to get you an intravenous drip instead?' I asked him sweetly.

He raised an eyebrow.'

'Maybe you should eat something,' I suggested. In contrast to Nic, Luca had only eaten one thing since last night, and even then it was just a measly slice of toast. And he hadn't even buttered it. Sheesh. Talk about playing the martyr. As if whatever God he prayed to would consider that tiny indulgence worse than all the people he's probably killed. Like that was going to make all the difference. Is that butter down there on Luca Falcone's single slice of toast? Close the gates, Peter. That is the last straw.