Page 89 of My Mafia King

His smirk is long gone when he flicks his arm, grabs the back of my hair, and pulls it down.

I stumble, my hands clawing at the air.

“Are you with the FBI? Who are you darling?” the Russian barks, everything happening in a second.

His eyes are dipped in poison, while I am scared, shitless.

It’s not as if I haven’t had a ton of bad experiences lately, but nothing comes close to this.

“Let her go,” Damaso snarls, shoving the Russian back, his eyes dark like boiling tar, his jaw tense like a slab of concrete.

The men in the room wrestle in response, Damaso’s crew pushing the Russians back.

They cock their guns.

“Nobody moves,” one of Damaso’s men thunders. “Let them sort things out.”

The Russian seems thrown off by Damaso’s violent reaction and lets go of me.

“Who is this woman, Salla?” he asks, his eyes pinned on Damaso, who steps back, sucks in a long breath, and runs his fingers through his hair, not looking at the Russian.

“I told you. She works for me.”

He reaches inside his jacket and pulls his hand out empty, his gesture creating more commotion.

“Chill out, for fuck’s sake, or I’ll chop your balls off and bury them in the desert,” Damaso says, fuming.

The man in front of me tips his eyes to me, unwilling to let go. He wants answers, and Damaso doesn’t have them while I wait my turn to speak, but no one’s asking me why I’m here.

The Russian’s eyes drop to the logo on my dress.

He touches my dress and pinches the logo, grazing my chest, and out of reflex, I swat his hand away.

The gesture is so unexpected it puts a smile on his face, and the men behind him seem amused, too.

Damaso is not amused at all, moving quickly toward us despite all of us sitting on a powder keg.

He takes my hand and drags me away from the Russian.

In retrospect, he’d probably say this was a big mistake, as his gesture had offered clues about how he felt about me and the whole situation.

Even I notice the shift in the Russian’s expression.

He mulls over something, a knowing smile creasing his lips.

“What kind of work does she do for you, Damaso? And why was she tucked in there? She just witnessed our entire conversation,” the Russian says, no smile on his face this time.

Damaso turns his head to me.

“Why are you here?” he asks evenly.

And finally, I get the chance to speak and come clean.

“I was assigned to a certain room. And I was looking for it when I found this place and walked in. Now I’m convinced it was the wrong room.”

I stop talking, still holding his eyes.

Even now, despite everything going on around us––the guns, the Russians, and their crazy boss––I notice a glint of humanity in Damaso’s eyes.

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