Page 3 of My Mafia Queen

Every little thing is a miracle.

Every day I’m still alive is fantastic.

I don’t feel in control, but I’ve learned to deal with uncertainty. How not to let it terrify me.

I wish I could do the mature thing right now and just go to my room. He wouldn’t stop me, I mean. He wouldn’t force me to stay.

But I’m glued to his bed as if I can’t resist him. And he can’t resist me. There are many things I can say no to, but Damaso Salla isn’t one of them.

I wonder how my life would’ve been if I had someone like Damaso in my life when I grew up.

Or if my father was a different kind of man. Strong, driven, yet protective and tender at the same time.

If that tool, Beau Antony, would’ve been different and would’ve wanted me to be more than the prey he liked to prey on.

And I wonder how my life would be if Damaso Salla wasn’t the Kingpin of Las Vegas.

If he was a normal man, someone with a regular home, something to do for a living, and a woman like me, mesmerized with him when he came home.

Someone waiting to share moments like these with him on a bed with our clothes on in the calming silence that has become a gift.

With no words flowing from our lips, as long as we could touch and his hand could rest on my hip, and my trust in him was perfectly intact.

I wonder at times if what we have is true trust.

Since I don’t have a representation of real trust, I can’t tell.

I should go.

Yet I’m still here, studying him.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been mystified with men. Maybe because I didn’t understand them.

I move my eyes from his face to his belt, tailored pants, fancy shoes, and the intricate tattoos covering his forearms that look like codes of conduct speaking of his secret life, the loyalties he shares with his men, and their dark history and sworn brotherhood.

There are many things in these little symbols for those interested in digging deeper and learning more.

I know little about his world except that it’s created a safe haven, a sanctuary for me.

I check his eyes.

Not a muscle moves on his face, so I tear my gaze away from him, tilt my gaze down, and try not to think about him.

If anything, I need to forget about him.

Despite being forever grateful for what he’s done for me, I must forget about him.

I try to turn my back to him and get some sleep when his grip tightens on me, forcing me to stay put.

I glance at him, surprised and even more bewildered, when I realize he’s been staring at me.

His power is obvious in so many ways.

In how he dresses, commands the room, gives orders, and generally spots danger, but nothing compares to the power reflected in his eyes.

Having him next to me is one thing. And having him next to me and staring into my eyes is quite another, making me melt.

I see the truth in his eyes, and it’s not what he’s said to me.

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