Page 114 of My Mafia King

People look at me like I’m a trophy girl. I keep my mouth shut and do not move away from Damaso.

Not even an inch.

For one, the thought that I wear that expensive little thing around my neck gives me shivers.

And then, it’s like that magnetic field between us has been activated once again, and my body wants to be as close as possible to his.

Now, that has proved to be an unforeseeable complication.

I can't not think about him.

And him?

I don’t know what goes through his head.

He seems in control.

All the time.

His focus is on the patrons.

He talks to the people, laughs with them, and even sits down with them at a table, having drinks with them.

He doesn’t pay much attention to me.

As in, you know, when two people are together.

We’re not together.

We. Are. Not. Together.

He bought my butt back from some mobster, and now he’s trying to convince everybody that he has satisfied his whim and has a call girl on his arm.

A pretty face.

An enviable trophy.

The last thing he wants to put out is that he has a weak spot for me or he’s shown poor judgment and jeopardized his business by antagonizing some thug for a woman.

I look around the room, searching for some woman who might have some history with this man.

Former girlfriends. Escorts. Hopefully, not wives.

He never struck me as the type who’d tied the knot. As if I know all this shit.

I’m a kid playing dress-up, wearing grown-up clothes.

I’m not that young.

But I’m not that old either, and you usually learn a lot of this stuff from older people who are close to you.

There weren’t that many in my case, so my knowledge is questionable at best.

Playing it by the ear is my favorite pastime.

I notice some women who might fit the profile, but nothing indicates they know him well.

He either gets rid of the women he is involved with.

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