Page 71 of My Mafia King

He is so kind to me, though.

For now. Remember what I just said. Never trust anyone.

Still smiling, I set my clothes on the chair and make my bed.

It’s a beautiful sunny day outside, and I can’t wait to get to that interview. Later, I’ll need to figure out what to do with my car, but for now, I’ll focus on getting a new job.

A better-paying job.

* * *

CARMINA

“Server?? Are you sure?”I ask, unable to stifle my surprise.

Is this all I’m getting after all the shit I’ve been through?

I’ve almost gotten myself killed for this??

To work as a server?

Didn’t I just quit a job like that?

The man in front of me studies my face for the fifteenth time. And no, he’s not studying my expression.

He simply can’t take his eyes away from me. I don’t know what I’ve done or if I’ve done anything to have him so interested in me.

Other than brushing my hair, putting some product in it, and amateurishly styling it.

I’m trying to look my best, with my hair bouncing down my back and my eyes highlighted by mascara and dark eyeliner.

I put on some makeup and did my hair, but I didn’t expect to stop the traffic with my appearance.

He likes what he sees and tries to be as professional as he can be, not crossing the line, but he is still very much obsessed with my face.

I wonder if I could have the same effect on everyone else.

But back to being a waitress. Again. I have nothing against serving food.

I’ve done it already, and it’s my work experience––so far––but I have hoped for something different.

Something with bigger tips.

“Is there a problem?” he asks while concern gnaws at my edges.

“No. No problem. How many hours can I work?”

If nothing else, I’ll work longer hours.

“It’s not so much about the hours. You’re on call and cater to our VIP guests. The pay is good, and they are excellent tippers.”

“How good?” I ask, having a feeling I might be wrong and this job might be the lifeline that I need.

He peels off a sticky note and writes down a number.

I glance at it and try to read it when he folds the piece of paper and slides it across his desk.

I pick it up, unfold it, and look at it. And then I lower it in my lap and peer down, so he can’t see my expression.

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