Page 80 of My Mafia Queen

They beat around the bush, talk in riddles, have a strange sense of humor, and wax poetic when you least expect it.

And then they put a bullet in your head.

They laugh the hardest before burning down your place and business.

I’ve never trusted them, and they don’t like me. All thugs have something in common.

They can’t stand people with principles because those people can’t be fooled, tend to stick to their guns, don’t fall for anyone’s tricks, and see through everybody’s nonsense.

In my case, they also hate I have so much power.

It’s about the money, the manpower, the organization, my connections, and the way I run my business. Add to that the fact that I’m not afraid.

They must know the only reason we’re dancing around each other is that my bosses have decided they’re more useful to us alive than dead.

It’s about dealing with the evil you know. The family is convinced removing the Russians would amount to nothing in the end and only create hardship.

They may be right, but I still think their strategy won’t work in the end.

The beautiful woman next to me shifts in her seat, and I forget about Boris and Vadim while moving my eyes to her legs.

She looks out the window, unaware of my stare.

Her legs are pressed together, her knees pointing to the passenger’s side door.

I get a warm feeling just by looking at her. And I quickly get hard.

That’s the thing with getting a taste of her… The more I bury myself in her, the more I want her.

And she surely feels the same.

She’s evolved from trying to keep up with me to wanting me every time I look at her.

I like that in a woman. It’s a nice feeling, yet things won’t stay like that. Like everything else in life, this will morph into something else.

People change, and she’ll change, too.

That’s precisely why I’ll enjoy every moment with her and regret nothing, regardless of how our story wraps up.

She swivels her head and catches me staring at her legs.

“Hey,” she says before I drag my gaze up and look at the road with a smile on my face.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice she can’t peel her gaze away from me.

“What’s going on?” I murmur, checking the time on my watch.

“Nothing.”

She shifts toward me, tilts her head to the side, presses her temple against the headrest, and quietly observes me.

“You have something to tell me?” I ask, amused, my eyes going to the rearview mirror.

We’re a real convoy, you know.

“I have nothing to tell you,” she says, sounding different.

I flick my eyes to her, and her eyebrows teasingly go up.

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