Page 18 of My Mafia King

He gives me a smile as if he finds this stimulating enough to participate, and his expression shifts as he swiftly walks into his role.

His expressive eyebrows pull together into a playful look, his lips crooked into a naughty grin.

“You were? Where were you, honey?” he says in a delicious husky voice.

His grin cancels out the natural sternness embedded in his features, setting off his arched lips, piercing dark eyes, and masculine jaw.

Lips carved out of firmness speak even when they stay quiet.

The tattoos on his fingers are paired with artistic lines peeking from under the crisp collar of his dress shirt.

Holding a wicked smile with something scary woven in it, he tilts his chin toward Beau, who witnesses everything with a stunned look.

“And who the fuck is this, darling?” he tosses at me while staring at my ex, who widens his stance aggressively.

“Who are you?” Beau retorts.

“Her jealous boyfriend. Now get the hell out of here before I drag you down the stairs with a bullet in your head.”

His words drip with poison, his eyes no longer smiling, painted in the darkest tones of madness.

His reaction is so unexpected that both Beau and I look at him, our mouths agape.

The man means business, but the truth is so unbelievably outrageous that Beau has a hard time accepting it.

Something tells him the man is the real deal, though, and a change of attitude would be in order.

He didn’t believe this man a second ago, and for sure, he didn’t believe me, but something has changed his beliefs.

He looks at me as if seeking an urgent confirmation.

“I told you,” I murmur as the stranger’s hand rests on the small of my back.

Beau seems to embrace the idea that he needs to leave and forget about me when the stranger looks at me.

“Who is this motherfucker?” he asks quietly as if talking to me for real and not solely pretending.

“He is the ex I was talking about.”

“Is he bothering you?”

Beau is already shifting toward the exit, but not without listening to our conversation.

He even glances over his shoulder, curious to hear what I have to say.

“Not now. He doesn’t.”

The stranger’s eyes snap toward Beau.

“Move,” he barks like he owns the hotel. “And make sure I don’t see your face again.”

He takes my hand and doesn’t let go of me, and I start to get worried now.

“What would you like to do now, sweetheart?”

He adjusts his tone for me, and I appreciate that, yet his eyes move down over my chest and legs before flicking to my face.

He drinks me in––all of me––and his eyes linger on my eyes, my hair, and my lips. How I looked helped me compel him to play a character for me.

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