Page 66 of My Mafia King

None.

Beau wants me for himself the way he wants his bacon. Fresh, crisp, and quickly in his belly.

He doesn’t give a damn about me as a person.

“Is the room fine?” he asks, and his casual question sends a signal to my brain that I’m utterly impolite, forgetting I’m here, in this five-star hotel, living like a princess, because of him.

Had he not offered me shelter, food, and the possibility to shower, I would’ve slept in my car and woken up with my face all wrinkled and my skin smelling like overheated plastic.

And that’s the better scenario in my head.

Had Beau snatched me up, I would’ve been bloodied––perhaps to death––hungry and folded into a pretzel in his car on my way to LA.

“I love it,” I say quietly, as if people outside the door listen to our conversation.

I step back a little and open the door wider.

“I was about to go to sleep since I have an early morning appointment, but… Would you like to come in for a moment?” I ask as if it’s my place, not his.

“Sure.”

To say I’m overwhelmed is like saying I’m in Vegas.

It goes without saying.

It’s not like I’m not used to people. I’ve worked as a waitress, not for long, but long enough to get used to reading people, ignoring their bad jokes, and not minding their quirks.

But this man?

Depending on the situation and time of the day, he knocks the air out of my lungs without the slightest effort.

And this is one of those situations.

He walks in while I furtively hyperventilate, trying not to clue him in on how affected I am.

After spending those intense moments downstairs… With me losing it, and him holding me in his arms and letting me sob against his chest, where I could’ve stayed forever.

And now being here only with him?

This is a huge adjustment for me.

I don’t want to talk about what happened downstairs. In fact, I hope he has forgotten about that. Although, why else would he be here if not to check on me?

The moment is awkward.

Should I ask him if Beau is still alive?

It wouldn’t serve me well to know what happened after I left. I’d already witnessed too much.

“It’s a beautiful view,” I say, sliding onto the bed and pointing to the window, although he can’t see me gesturing since he edges closer to the wall of windows and glances outside.

“It is, isn’t it?” he murmurs contemplatively as if he’s personally picked the view along with everything else in this hotel.

“Have you lived here for long?” I ask, stiff as I try to find a position, relax, and not get muscular cramps.

“Not that long,” he says, sounding like he’s not eager to share more information.

It doesn’t matter.

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