Page 87 of My Mafia King

The bookcase groans, shakes, and moves while a flicker of light slips inside. I stare at it with widened eyes, horror sweeping through my bones.

What am I supposed to do now?

Frantically, I move my palms over the wall to my left, looking for a place to hide.

But what do I expect, really? It’s a room with a safe–deposit box. There is nothing else in here.

And then, through some miracle, I find a little cranny as the bookcase begins to slide, and I manage to squeeze myself in, my back pressed against the wall, my front squished against another wall, my feet crammed inside the enclosure.

I can barely breathe and can’t move my arms. Lift or flex them. I have to keep them down with my palms pressed against my hips or the wall behind me.

My head is tilted back as I struggle not to hyperventilate and make myself pass out.

Footsteps resonate against the floor.

“Don’t ask me next time, all right?” Damaso says.

I see nothing, but I can recognize his voice.

“I cleaned up the space for you,” another man says with a Russian accent.

“You didn’t need to. I don’t need your hitmen. You know that,” Damaso says, his voice somewhat misleading.

On the one hand, he seems annoyed with his interlocutor.

On the other hand, the exchange sounds like banter.

I have a hard time establishing which is which.

“It’s pure pleasure for you, motherfucker,” Damaso continues. “And I’m financing it,” he says, and they both laugh.

“You’re financing it…?” the other man says. “You’re loaning me money and get it back with interest before I spend it here and hire more people to clean up the streets for you. Since when is the Mafia farming out this kind of shit?”

“Since jerks like you want to make a killing.”

The Russian laughs.

“I’m making a killing? What about you? You’re not even lifting a finger, and here you are, shoving money into your safe–deposit box.”

“This is pocket change for me, and you know it. Besides, I’m a businessman,” Damaso says with self-deprecating humor before the door to the safe–deposit box clicks unlocked, and I can only suspect he puts some money in there.

Another click follows.

“You need me more than I need you,” Damaso says. “I don’t mind lending you money as long as you hold your end of the deal.”

A pause follows, and I grow hot in my little space, my breaths getting shallower and faster.

“You know…” the Russian says. “We could do more than these little side deals. You know I don’t need your money, Salla. But I like your style. Get me a meetup with your boss to discuss some serious business.”

Another pause ensues. And I tip my head to hear Damaso’s answer.

It doesn’t come for a while.

“I’m not in that kind of business,” he says.

“I know… I know,” the Russian says. “But money talks. And it’s always about the money. None of us are doing these for the accolades. No statue has been erected with our names on it. We won’t make history. Not the legit kind, we won’t.”

A few seconds pass.

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