Page 10 of My Mafia King

She’ll wear a red swimsuit, while mine will be white.

I don’t even have one, but I plan to get one. A bedazzled one at that.

Or maybe it will be yellow like my mango juice.

A smile still creases my lips as I imagine all that. It looks so real in my head my heart warms.

“Are you done?”

A male voice resonates behind me, and I realize I've hold up the line, so I murmur an apology in return, grab my drink, and walk away, slowly sipping juice and looking around the room.

The fresh drink does its magic, cooling me off.

Once I’m done with it, I place the empty glass onto a side table and glance in the mirror again when a man’s back catches my attention.

He stops in front of the concierge desk and my face drops.

It’s not the back of his hair that clues me in. It’s the edge of his tattoo––an ugly piece of art covering the top of his shoulders, visible against the neat edge of his white tank top.

“What the fuck…?”

I can barely unclench my teeth, and my voice is shot.

Is this some kind of weird coincidence?

What is Beau‘Dick’Anthony doing here?

This cannot be a coincidence? Can it?

No.

No, no.

I skitter away, moving quickly toward the side of the lobby, my gaze glued to the back of his neck and shoulders.

He’s talking to the same girl I talked to, and she starts to look around, and my last shred of hope that he is not here looking for me completely vanishes.

How?

How did he find out?

Did he follow me?

I took a ton of precautions. I didn’t use my phone. I bought an old car. Jen didn’t tell him.

Plus, we broke off.

He fucked that woman at the tiki bar two blocks from where I used to work.

She was the one who told me about their hookup. And other people said the same thing.

I didn’t want that for myself.

If there was one thing I couldn’t take––well, two––it was him cheating on me and being subjected to physical and verbal abuse.

He was good at both.

Why is he looking for me?

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