Page 69 of My Mafia King

We’re like two passengers on a train, sitting next to each other and traveling together for a while.

We don’t mind each other, although in our case, the things connecting us run deeper than that.

I roll onto my other side so I have my back turned to him and I’m not distracted by his presence, and then I notice the rustling of his clothes as he moves his hand and threads his fingers through my hair. He doesn’t move them.

He just rests his hand on the back of my head, creating trust.

That’s how it feels.

Whatever he’s giving me makes me feel at peace. And I no longer feel like a runaway. I’m only someone who is about to fall asleep.

And that does it for me.

Within seconds, my eyes feel heavy, and my heartbeats slow down. My breaths roll slowly in and out of my lungs.

And just like that, I’m gone, falling into the deepest sleep and resting like I have never rested before.

12

CARMINA

The morning couldn’t be moredifferent than last night.

The phone starts ringing, the noise drilling into my brain. It’s a courtesy call from the concierge, and I shoot up and glance at the digital clock on the nightstand.

It’s 7:AM sharp.

In all fairness, I’ve asked them to call me and wake me because I didn’t want to risk sleeping in.

So I thank the woman, crash back, and roll over, enjoying a few more moments of peace.

My cheek is pressed into the pillow as I lie on my stomach with my eyes closed. Before long, the memory of last night comes to me in vivid colors.

I push my head up at once and look at the other side of the bed.

The pillow is propped up where he leaned against it, and the covers are creased where he sat.

Damaso Salla.

He stayed with me last night. And those few moments we had had before I fell asleep were some of the best in my life.

I can’t think for long about that special feeling when someone knocks on the door.

Oh, my clothes. The concierge woman has said something about that.

I roll off the bed, fixing my bathrobe.

“I’m coming,” I say, sprinting to the door and realizing my bandages barely dangle from my knees.

I rip them off and tuck them in my pocket before I open the door.

A man and a rack of clothes await me.

He wears a uniform and greets me before dipping his gaze to my body and estimating my measurements.

“Pants or skirt?”

“Uh… Skirt?”

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