Page 88 of My Mafia King

“You know my answer,” Damaso says firmly.

“Yeah, yeah… I know,” the other man murmurs and his steps echo around the room.

As he moves, more men shuffle their way into the chamber, and I hear everything.

Their shoes against the floor, the rustle of their suits, and even the clinking of their belt buckles.

I almost suffocate inside my hiding spot and shift my position toward the room to breathe a little easier when the footsteps stop.

The silence becomes unbearable with every passing second.

“What the fuck is that?” the Russian mutters, his voice exploding inches away from my ear.

16

CARMINA

He’s near me,although I can’t quite see him.

Something hits the tip of my shoe, and I yelp, my toe crushed underneath.

And then a calloused hand wraps around my neck, and I get yanked out of my spot, my pain growing beneath his fingers.

A few things happen at once.

People move around the room with their guns drawn as I fight the hand cutting off my air supply.

“What the fuck is this, Salla? Are you spying on me? Is she working for you? Or is your house not in order?”

The man drags me away while I squeeze his grip with both hands, trying to escape his clutch.

Someone moves closer, and a voice barks orders while a strong hand unclasps his from my neck.

“Let her go,” Damaso demands.

The Russian lets go of me before Damaso pushes me behind him.

“What the fuck is this, Salla?” the man in front of him says, his brow creased into a frown.

The Russian looks at me and then at Damaso, whose eyes could cut through glass.

Panting, I notice eight men in the room. The ones working for Damaso and a few others who look like the Russian.

They have scarred faces, cold gray eyes, and bulky frames.

Damaso’s men have guns.

A scar splits the Russian’s upper lip. He looks rough, void of emotions.

Next to him, Beau Anthony looks like an angel.

“Do you know this woman?” he asks, staring at Damaso, baffled.

“She works for me,” Damaso says, moving away from us.

I can’t see his face, but his voice suggests he’s angry, disappointed, and concerned.

“Works for you?” the Russian says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Is she clean? Are you sure her presence here doesn’t have anything to do with me?”

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