Page 46 of My Mafia King

Boom.

His fist meets the window again.

“You can’t have a fucking boyfriend. Real men don’t waste their time with women who don’t fuck.”

“You fucking did. Oh, I forgot. You’re not a real man, motherfucker, or you wouldn’t fight me, a woman half your size. Who fights a woman, motherfucker, huh?”

Boom. Boom. He doesn’t stop, fuming.

I collect my shoe, and although I can’t afford to ruin it and walk barefoot to my interview tomorrow morning, I start hitting his fingers with the heel whenever he sticks them inside and tries to push the window down.

“Go away,” I bark.

He doesn’t, and I see myself in that precarious situation in which I’ll need to move away from this place.

However, this time, he’d probably follow me, and it wouldn’t serve me well to drive farther away from the hotel.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

He puts his elbow through the window, and the frame finally gives way. The car groans, and the window busts open before he slides his hand inside despite me fighting him.

Eventually, he opens the door and drags me out, and I fall to my knees and feel the pain in my scraped skin as it oozes blood.

“I hate you,” I shriek, looping my arms around his calves and sinking my teeth above his ankle straight into his flesh.

The man groans in pain and grabs the back of my hair with such force that I feel like he might end up wearing my scalp as a trophy by the end of the night, and then something else happens.

A thud ripples through the air, and his hand gets removed from me while his body lurches forward, his head going straight through the cracked window.

Shards of glass fall to my knees as two beefy men deal with him, and a baseball swings to his back.

One guy handles the baseball bat while the other slams my ex’s head into the broken window.

I’m thinking we’re getting robbed, and I’m next.

And then, I’m thinking they have some shit to settle.

And then, I hear them cussing him while hitting him with passion, mumbling something about being chivalrous with a woman.

That would be me.

Their New York Accents give them away, so I fall back to my rear and look up.

These are Damaso’s men. They finish Beau and lift him up.

He’s about to crash to my feet when one of the men rubs his hand over his brow like he’s done a good job.

And I can’t argue with him. Or them.

Beau is out––a mass of bones and muscles.

“You’re coming with us, buddy,” the man says, and then the other one turns to me, slides his hand under my arm, and pulls me up.

“You okay?” he asks curtly, pushing his gaze down. “Have shoes?” he says, pointing to my bare feet.

“Yes.”

“Pick up your stuff. You’re coming with us, too.”

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