Page 67 of My Mafia King

I’m only making conversation, anyway.

“How are your knees?” he asks, pivoting to me and undoing his jacket before sliding his hands into his pockets.

“They’re good.”

I flick my bathrobe open above my thighs to show him the bandages.

“They hurt,” I murmur.

“They’ll get better,” he says as if he is in the health and wellness business.

“Yes. probably.”

I sound hesitant because I am, suddenly remembering my dress is too short to cover the marks on my knees, and I need to wear it in the morning at my job interview.

“What happened?’ he asks, noticing the change in my voice.

I gesture as if it’s nothing without looking at him.

“It’s about my dress. It would expose my knees.”

Why am I telling him all this?

“You’ll get a new set of clothes. Don’t worry about that.”

I shift my gaze to him, not knowing how to respond to that.

“Thank you,” I finally say.

He muses over something before he speaks again.

“About your father's situation––”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say curtly, interrupting him yet doing it in a soft voice.

The stern expression on his face suggests he’s genuinely interested in what’s going on in my life.

I shake inside.

“I can’t go back without some money.”

A frown mars his brow while he removes his hands from his pockets and crosses his arms over his chest.

He tilts his chin down, his jaw locked.

“Do you need to make money for your father?”

I shake my head.

“No. I need to get away from him.”

“Okay,” he says softly and more relaxed, although that’s always relative with him.

I don’t know him that well to tell for sure.

“I can’t say more than that,” I mutter in a quivering voice. “It’s important to get that job. That’s all I can say.”

He uncrosses his arms and straightens as if getting ready to leave while I suck in a long, tense breath.

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