Page 65 of My Mafia King

I can’t say I’m not nervous.

I struggle to tie my belt and pull my bathrobe over my collarbones.

I’m as nervous as I can be, and there’s fear in my bones.

It has to do with life pulling the rug from under my feet too damn often and leaving me holding the short end of the stick more times than I can count.

I haven’t learned many lessons in my life, but I’ve nailed one. I know not to trust anyone. People are eager to help you one day, and then they turn against you the next.

What if it’s the same with him?

Let me be clear here.

No one is fooling anyone.

I’ve seen enough things until now. How they operate, picked me up, and interrogated Beau. Everybody in that room had something in common. They were all villains.

Yes, Damaso and his crew wear suits and behave when they need to, but just because their clothes are high end and the cologne they spritz on their necks is expensive doesn’t mean they’re not as bad if not worse than Beau Anthony.

My belief that you need a more vicious predator to deal with a predator has just been confirmed.

It works despite coming with undesirable consequences.

It’s why I’m alive and not tucked in Beau’s car.

It’s also why I’m scared. Predators are predators for a reason. They need to feed themselves. All the fucking time. And I’m as juicy as they come. Small, young, vulnerable, inexperienced, and dependent.

I depend on other people’s goodwill to survive.

And sometimes, like now, I might just reap the benefits of being targeted by different parties.

But then I might just need to pay a price.

So I’m a little scared when I unlock the door, crack it open, and look through the small opening like he’s there to deliver something.

Words of encouragement, news, or a surprise.

Good thinking, Car.

A surprise. Sure. Why not? Pff.

“Yes,” I say, hiding behind the door.

He’s changed his clothes. How do I know? They look fresh, not that the others looked bad, but he has that air about himself like he’s about to go out and meet someone. A woman, perhaps.

I don’t think that woman is me.

My eyes slip a little as it's impossible not to notice how good he looks.

He’s a ten––through and through.

I don’t know what ten means, but I bet it looks like him.

His eyes glint in the dimness, and despite the faint light, they discreetly move over my face.

He’s never looked at me that way––like I’m interesting.

How many people have found me interesting? In that way?

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