They’re definitely mafia, probably small-time drug runners operating out of nearby Tijuana.
But I’ve had enough of the mafia for one lifetime.
“Let me put it to you in a way you can understand,” he interrupts. He leans forward a little, scanning me from head to toe, though his eyes linger on my stomach and breasts. “I want fresh meat. One way or the other. You know, I’ve always had a thing for pregnant women.”
My forced smile turns sour. I take a step back. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I back away and head straight for the kitchen. Once I’m in the safety of the kitchen, I can breathe a little easier, but the thought of going back out there turns my stomach.
“Emily, you okay?” asks Jose, the line cook.
I nod and force a smile back onto my face. “I’m fine,” I reply. “I just…you know, diff
