Page 51 of My Mafia King

Not lately.

“What’s the story?” I ask, itching to slide my cigarette between my lips, run the flame over the tip, and take a drag.

It’s an exercise in discipline, and I win every time, although the struggle is real.

“That woman, Carmina Leto, lives out of her car. She’s parked two blocks down the road on the other side of the street behind a building.

I look at him, expressionless.

He waits for me to say something.

“Go on.”

“The fucker was hot on her trail, and I thought he’d get to her and try to talk to her. He followed her for a while until he made sure she went to her car, and then he turned around and headed to a gas station down the road. He’s driving a sports car and made some fuss at the gas station, arguing with the clerk. I don’t know what his beef was with that guy, but he looked pissed overall. He bought some food and beer and went back to his ride. Later, he smoked a joint and talked on the phone. It looked important as his face was all bunched up, and he gestured a lot. I thought he’d leave. He didn’t. Not immediately. And for sure, not back to LA. He pulled out of the parking lot and turned left on the road, making the trip to where she'd parked her ride.”

He pauses, and you can hear a pin drop.

“I don’t know what the fucker did. He waited for sure. He couldn’t tell whether she was in her car or not. Not from where he sat. But she was there. He must’ve known she had nowhere else to go. I assumed he did. I couldn’t see her either, so I moved closer and tried to get a glimpse of her. He didn’t move, and I figured he was there either waiting for the sun to go down or to follow her around and learn more about her business. Which didn’t make sense to me. I thought he’d jump her bones as soon as she exited the hotel.”

They all look at me before I glance outside.

It’s getting dark.

As much as I hate wasting my time with some small-time crook, I can’t just let it slide.

“Go get him,” I say. “And meet me downstairs.”

They cheer me on. They know what downstairs means. It’s another version of sitting in a van tied up and gagged, only it’s more theatrical, and I participate.

Their clothes rustle as they rush to the door, and I watch them disappear before pondering whether to light the cigarette.

And then I tuck it back into my pocket.

I win every time. Don’t I?

9

DAMASO

‘Downstairs’is the mob version of my regular office.

I run my business from several spots in this hotel.

One is the top floor, where I stumbled into Carmina. That level is reserved entirely for me and my crew.

The second one is my real office––where I had dinner.

That space oozes an air of sophistication with its hand-carved desk, leather sofas, vintage art, a walnut coffee table, and bottles of old scotch.

The glass walls, digital screens, and electronic devices add a modern vibe to it I have nothing against, yet those devices are checked around the clock.

The gym, which is not officially a place I do business in–– although it’s happened to make an exception to the rule––is located on a lower level.

It’s a large space with a weight-lifting room, a covered swimming pool, and a boxing ring.

And then there are the back rooms tucked in the strip club, where I’m headed right now.

A maze of corridors leads me to where the adjacent space looks like a fully equipped facility with regular rooms.

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