Page 97 of My Mafia King

His eyes slide to me, and I have a feeling that’s not it, whether it concerns me or the Russian.

“For now,” Damaso says, briefly locking Vito’s eyes.

Yes. I’m no fool. There’s more to what he said.

He might want some things that have to do with me. I can’t read Salla that well, but he is not happy with me––to put it mildly––and why would he be?

Everything that happened tonight put him in a bad light and the fact that he had to choose between handing me to the Russian and having everyone witness the deal they had struck only made things worse.

I’m sure in his world, no life is worth the headache, and the fact that he’s spared mine creates unnecessary complications for him.

I don’t know why he acted the way he did.

Why he chose that instead of handing me over and being done with it.

Is he a man of principles?

I doubt he can afford to be that kind of man in a world like his.

Does he like me?

The idea is simply laughable.

Men like him squash their feelings, so it’s not even a remote possibility.

Whatever has prompted him to do that, I bet he regrets it already.

Putting his reputation on the line for me, and now having to babysit me?

This is not even about that.

I don’t know how he looks at it, but I consider myself a captive. And what’s worse? I don’t see a way out.

I fully understand, though. It was either this or death. Or sexual slavery and death.

So he chose for me, but that doesn’t mean the other options are entirely off the table.

18

DAMASO

The room iscold as I take my jacket off and put it on the back of my chair behind my desk.

Quietly, I move around the room, going through the motions, thoughts spinning in my head.

I’ve made a mistake.

I don’t regret it. I’m just aware of it and the fact that there may be consequences.

Amber-colored liquor slides into my glass at the bar before I take a swig and saunter back to my desk.

I settle into my seat and move my eyes to the computer screens.

Without thinking twice, I reach inside my jacket, and for the first time in a few months, I pull out a cigarette, search inside a drawer, retrieve my favorite metal lighter, and light it.

I take a long drag and instantly hate it.

I don’t like the smell, the taste.

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