Page 17 of My Mafia King

He seems casual as he slips out the door.

I notice the intricate ink on his fingers––symbols and letters–– and his tailored suit, denoting an impeccable taste in fashion.

He’s taller than Beau, with hard muscles filling his high-end suit like chiseled boulders.

There is something about him and how he moves and runs his fingers through his hair, oozing poise.

I’ve never seen such confidence in a man. Not at work and not at home. And for sure, not in the man dragging me down the corridor.

That kind of self-assuredness is unique, like him.

There is something of a big, dangerous feline in his step, reminiscent of a panther's unwavering intent and dizzying intensity before pouncing.

I’m silent. And Beau is quiet, something making him tear his hand away from my hair.

For sure, the presence of this stranger and the undesirable prospect of being questioned by the Las Vegas police are strong deterrents, even for someone like him.

Perhaps, Jen is right, and Beau has a rap sheet, and this is not the moment to fuck with his life.

Released from his grip, I straighten at once, pondering how to use this situation to my advantage.

Running a hand over my skirt, I smooth my dress, checking the stranger out.

His dark hair is buzzed short, but not too short, while his tan complexion is similar to mine.

A sexy ring is wrapped around his finger, and expensive shoes complete his look. He is sharply dressed, and I would gape at him a little longer, but my current situation is quite precarious.

My ex is about half a step in front of me as we edge closer to the stranger.

He fills the doorframe, ready to step out of the hotel room, when I rush past Beau, intently leaving him behind while prompting the stranger to flick his gaze to me.

His eyes glint with a quick assessment, and for a second, I’m completely frozen in front of him while he makes a gesture I can’t quite understand, and suits rustle hysterically behind him.

He makes another gesture, and three burly men freeze behind him.

They all have swift reactions comprised of smooth, rehearsed moves, and I don’t have time to figure out what they mean when my eyes slide to the stranger’s face.

His gaze meets mine with a hint of curiosity and deliberate purpose.

His focus is sharp while his eyes glint with questions, and he collects his own answers from how I look and how the man accompanying me behaves.

Moving his gaze from Beau Anthony to me with a concerned, steady expression on his face, he probably notices the invisible tendrils of tension flailing around us.

I use the brief reprieve to step toward him, and the suits behind him rustle once again with threatening impatience when he repeats his clipped gesture, and they draw still.

Their shoulders are broad like his, and their eyes are divorced of any human compassion––not that the man in front of me has any, although he seems more concerned with what is going on while they seem blind at everything except his quick commands.

“There you are,” I say in a sweet, playful voice, and he quickly catches on I’m acting.

Taken by surprise, Beau spins around to face us when I press myself against the stranger, run my fingers up his neck, and make him tilt his head to me so I can kiss his lips.

He’s cold like a statue. A stone angel in a cemetery or at the entrance of a tomb.

“You’re my boyfriend,” I whisper in his ear. “Can you play along, please?”

My fingers move over his neck while I mumble words next to his ear, lingering a little longer before he snaps out of his frozen state and coils his arm around my waist.

“I was looking for you,” I say, smiling, my shoulders pulled back a little, his arm still looped around my waist, my hands connected to his hard chest.

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