Page 8 of My Mafia King

The sun glares mercilessly at me, and I look at the horizon, making a quick calculation in my head as to how soon I could see it dip below the horizon when my long dark hair fans out over my back like a cloak, making me sweat even more.

It’s like wearing a coat at the height of the summer.

Tina and I have inherited our hair from my mother, who had long, thick, raven hair, olive skin and dark eyes.

Our father is fair-skinned and has dirty blonde hair and gray eyes. None of us have picked the color of his eyes or skin.

Tina is paler than me and has blue eyes, but they are nothing like our father’s.

His are shot and washed out.

Hers are clear and alive like drops of mountain water.

I must’ve picked the color of my eyes from some ancestor since they’re a mix of sparkling green and warm hazelnut. Like a meadow washed in light. Or a sunny porch. Or a lazy afternoon outside.

The colors go well with my dark hair. And my hair always steals the show because it curls at the tips, and it looks like a flood tumbling over a hill in the middle of the night.

It’s like a knight’s cloak.

Or raven wings flapping in the wind.

Speaking of that…

A gust of wind runs its fingers through my hair, bringing dust to my lips.

“Fuck this, too,” I quietly say, promising to myself to get this job, or a similar one, and enough money to rent a room and never have to get outside.

I only want to go to work and then to my place before sleeping in my little box.

That’s all I want.

There won’t be any sightseeing for me anytime soon.

I’m slightly unsure of myself as I walk across the street, heading to the hotel entrance and mumbling stuff under my breath.

I eventually compose myself, straighten my spine, push my bottom out, and walk self-assuredly how I’ve seen women doing it on TV, or when walking into the restaurant on Saturday nights.

The kind of woman I’d prepared drinks for before men got cocky with, talking their ears off or simply paying for their drinks and leaving me tips.

I sunk all those tips into my beat-up car, but hey. It’s gotten me here? Yes, it has.

Catcalls trail me, and I have no idea where they’re coming from.

Shielding my eyes, I shoot an annoyed glance to my left.

Construction workers give me their best smiles and words I can make out as I wave them off.

They laugh.

I ignore them.

Suddenly, a bunch of cars pull up in front of the hotel, and as much as I’d love to step inside and have some cold air over my face, I’m trapped here, slaloming through rows of luxurious rides.

People climb out while a swarm of valets has been deployed to move the cars away, and well-built bellboys pick up their suitcases.

It’s getting even busier as I cut my way through the crowd, and just as I walk through the glass doors and the nice cold air finally whooshes over my face, I have this strange feeling that someone’s staring at my back.

I pull up to a sudden stop, and the people behind me stumble into me.

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