Page 24 of My Mafia King

Guests are moving in and out of the hotel, expensive cars pulling up in front of the flashy entrance before gliding away, and the staff busy with the everyday needs of an establishment of this size.

The crew that has followed him is still here, somewhere, and nothing seems to move without him moving.

“A reason?” I answer like I’m in school.

“Mm-hmm,” he pushes through his tense jaw, his eyes not leaving mine.

I break eye contact several times. And every time I bring my gaze back to him, he’s there, waiting for me patiently.

My throat is dry, and I could use more of that cold mango juice. I’m a little nervous as I ponder my answer.

On a scale from zero to ten, I’m a six when it comes to making conversation.

My life experience is limited, and aside from coming in contact with people at school, at home––forget that––and at work, there hasn’t been much material to develop my conversational skills.

So, I’m trying to come up with a good answer. Should I be truthful with him?

Maybe not.

What can I gain from telling him my story?

“I just want to make a living and support myself. Life is pretty expensive these days.”

He tips his gaze down, expressing displeasure for reasons that escape me.

And then he tilts his chin to the concierge desk, inviting me to go there and take care of my business.

He lets go of me, slides his hands into his pockets, and watches me move to the woman behind the desk.

I glance at him over my shoulder quite often, and every time I do that, I meet his eyes.

His stare burns holes into my back when I finally swivel my head and look at the woman.

I quickly learn the man I was supposed to meet is no longer available for a job interview.

Not today, anyway.

I’m apologetic and a bit desperate as I hear the news.

Although she’s hardly the decision maker in this situation, she advises me to call the hotel in the morning and try to schedule a new appointment with him before ten.

The phone rings on her desk.

She picks it up and murmurs a few silent words in response to the person on the other end of the line while moving her eyes to the man behind me.

“The table is ready, sir,” she says curtly while his hand comes to my arm.

“Let’s go,” he says, and it dawns on me he has been within earshot all this time and most likely heard my conversation with that woman.

Silently, we walk down a corridor that’s beautifully encased in glass walls.

The afternoon light drips through the sheets of glass, highlighting the impressive view.

The more we walk away from the concierge, the fewer people we encounter.

And it’s mostly staff members. People who ensure everything looks sparkling clean and is neatly organized.

He shows me to a large room that looks like an event room.

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