Page 60 of My Mafia King

I’m surprised he hasn’t done it already.

Maybe because they didn’t see eye to eye, and my father never cared much about him. Or knew a lot about him.

Beau Anthony was a friend of mine as far as my father was concerned, one he couldn’t stand because he couldn’t accept anything that had to do with my life outside our home.

And Beau knew little about my real life, although he knew enough to run his mouth in front of Damaso.

I felt so humiliated when he talked about my personal life in public. And then… To add insult to injury, he had to say that stupid shit in the end.

He dumbed down his conversation? Really??

He’s dumb as a rock.

Yes, he’s a thug and sly enough to have that going for him, but other than that, the man has the sophistication of a box of rocks.

I so regret getting involved with him, especially now that he’s messing with me, ruining my efforts to fix my life and Tina’s.

What a piece of deplorable shit.

We enter the lobby, and the man accompanying me makes a beeline for the concierge desk while keeping an eye on me.

He talks to the girl behind the desk, and she makes a few phone calls, her eyes occasionally flying to me.

My resolve dissolves as I realize I’m tired, hungry, and ashamed that my knees are scratched and dirty. I purposefully face the concierge so no guest can get a glimpse of my marred legs.

Patiently waiting, I mull over this mess that takes a psychological toll on me and ponder ways to keep Beau Anthony away from me and Tina.

And us safe from my father.

He’ll be a huge problem when he finds out where I am and what I’m about to do.

Maybe this was a stupid plan to begin with.

Maybe leaving Tina at home was not as smart as I thought.

How can a twelve-year-old fend for herself? And how could I fool myself into believing that Stella would protect her from my father?

These dickheads only get more irritated when things don’t go their way.

Look at Beau‘Dick’Anthony.

The man is unrelenting.

Hopefully, I’ll get that job, and I won’t leave this hotel until I make some money, fix my car, and only return to LA to pick up my sister.

My plan is questionable at best and quite childish––I’ll be the first to admit–but it’s the best I’ve got.

“Let’s go,” the man says, spinning away from the concierge desk and showing me to a different part of the hotel.

I’m grateful we’re moving away from the busy lobby. The more we walk, the more peaceful and beautiful the place becomes.

I can’t wait to lie in bed after I take a shower.

The thought gives me a small boost of energy, but I keep quiet, following the man to the elevator.

Two levels up, the car stops, and the doors open.

He points to a corridor, and moments later, we halt in front of a door, and he opens it for me.

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