Page 132 of My Mafia King

I haven’t even tried to do that with high school boys.

That part of my life has never happened.

Have I thought about having sex, losing my V-card, and all that crap?

Quite a few times, but it just didn’t feel right.

When the other girls were having sex, I was trying to stay alive.

So yes, it has never been a priority of mine.

Can anyone blame me? No. I don’t think so.

I’m still confused when it comes to Damaso Salla and the things he does to my body. Sometimes without even touching me.

But I’m not confused when it comes to the dress I want to wear tonight.

The black dress he’d picked the other night lies on the bed.

I put on black lingerie that is all lace and frills, and I slide my skintight dress on.

My skin is warm from the sun, and I’ve slathered some lotion on my legs and arms, and now I smell like bergamot and nectarines. The citrusy aroma lifts off my skin every time I move my arms.

I struggle with the zipper at the back of my dress and slide my straps in place.

Cute bows adorn the straps.

My outfit features a tailored design with princess seams, the scoop neckline outlining my chest, the cut revealing my arms, collarbones, neck, and the top of my back.

My hemline stops beneath my knee.

I use red lipstick to add a smidgen of color to my look.

I slide on a pair of fancy shoes and fasten the two-million-dollar necklace around my neck.

Before dinner, someone enters Damaso’s suite, and I’m convinced it’s him, so I exit my room to greet him but find Gianni in the living room.

He glances at me, expressing no emotion.

“Are you ready?” he says.

“Uh. Yes. Let me get my purse.”

I spin around, rush back to my room, pick up my evening bag, and shoot one last glance in the mirror, inspecting my hair––it slides over my back in dark waves––and dress before exiting my room.

“He’s waiting for you downstairs,” Gianni says, holding the door for me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, stepping outside.

We take the elevator down, navigate several corridors, and enter a room with tables covered in perfectly ironed linen tablecloths.

Aside from the few tables, there is a flashy bar with a mirrored wall and a stage for live music.

The floral arrangements and crystal chandeliers give it a luxurious feel, but there is no one here except for the staff and band playing on the stage.

A table is set for two.

For Damaso and me––I suppose.

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