Page 10 of Mafia King: Matteo (Borrelli Mafia #1)

ALENA

I’m breathless by the time I make it into my condo. How did Mr. Grey know where I was? Do men hang out in the parking lot of a woman’s designer store to wait for them? No man does that unless he wants points or, realistically—sex. Unless he has the makings of a stalker.

Do I believe in coincidence?

No. The fact that my mystery man knew where I could be found is a concern. However, I also find it thrilling. If he’s following me, then he likes me. We definitely have a strong attraction to each other. I’m just not sure it will evolve into anything more than steamy sex.

I should call my father. I’ve always called him when something felt off. But he would put me under house arrest to keep me safe. I’m sure I’m overreacting.

Izzy is right. I need to call Kirill. He is a trusted friend, and he can be discreet. There’s not much information I can provide him. The limo is probably leased, and I was too busy fucking Mr. Grey to get the license plate.

I drop my shopping bags inside the condo and toss my coat on the couch.

Perhaps Madame M’s computer can be hacked. She must own one to keep records of all the patrons of the sex club. She loves the roaring ‘20s, but certainly, she’s using the 21 st century to run her business—I hope.

Kirill is a great hacker. Unfortunately, Tito is gone after Don’s wife bought his loyalty.

Kirill knows all the players inside the bratva.

He also has access to the legit businesses and players we exploit for our gain.

It may be a council member we need to vote in for a contract to be approved.

Or, the favor might be as simple as a variance on a building.

We always need those to add additional floors to an apartment complex or office building.

Sometimes, the family needs an invitation to a social function that allows my father, or the Don, to have access to a judge we need to get a legal case dropped or deliver a bribe.

These wheels need to stay greased to make our organization function. I’m not privy to the nitty-gritty details of how it gets accomplished. As Mom always says, the less we know, the safer we will be.

But is that true? The Don had to execute his wife for her betrayal of him. I cringe to think of what it’s like being married to anyone who would screw over their partner so ruthlessly.

I text Kirill, and he agrees to meet for drinks later. He’s picking me up in his new sports car. I’m not surprised. He’s such a showboat. If he could pick his occupation, he’d choose to be a Formula 1 race car driver.

I undressed, putting my boots on the closet shelf. I walk to the bathroom to take a shower. As I pass the mirror over the sink, I notice hickey marks on my neck.

I should be pissed that he marred my alabaster skin but instead I’m glad to have the bruises as a visual reminder of his passion.

It means he’s real, even if I don’t know who he is.

Besides, it’s not every day a woman gets fucked by the most fuckable man in the city.

Sex in a limo was a first for me, and the thrill of being caught added to the excitement.

We’ve carried the anonymous charade off effortlessly at the sex club. But what was fun in the beginning is now wearing on me. Who is this mystery man, and why is it such a mystery? He could be nobody. He could be somebody.

I’m not sure what to think of Mr. Grey. What was he referring to when he mentioned I might not like him at night? Is he a monster? The only monster I can think of is blue and in a children’s movie that’s as old as me.

I turn on the water and undress while I wait for it to warm. Thank goodness my dad put in an expensive heat-on-demand unit when he remodeled this unit for me. In older buildings like this, getting hot water in winter can take forever.

The fragrance of my mystery man clings to my blouse, and after one sniff, I toss my clothes into the hamper.

I take my time washing myself in the shower before I realize I need to send out resumes.

I sent a draft of my resume to an acquaintance of my mother, who works in human resources.

She emailed me suggestions on how to improve it.

I’m not great at finessing sentences. In my opinion, resumes make you sound great and provide very little information.

Resumes are like political speeches. The politician will talk for ten minutes and say nothing.

I call it word salad. I wouldn’t know how to converse without stating my opinion.

It’s unnatural that so many people talk about things that won’t matter in a few years.

Meanwhile, the most important questions that will shape our world for the next ten years are the ones that are never asked or discussed.

I dry myself off and put on a comfy pair of joggers that my mom gifted to me for Christmas. It feels like silk, and the dark blue accentuates the color of my eyes.

I texted Izzy and thanked her for brunch. I also informed her I got home okay after banging the mystery man in his limo.

My phone rings immediately.

“Yes?” I tease her.

“You just hooked up with him again?” Izzy squeals excitedly.

“Yes, I did. He picked me up in a limo after I finished shopping, and his driver drove us around the city while we fucked and sucked in the back.”

“How did he even find you? I mean, no one knew you were shopping at Chanel. I think you need a guard to keep you safe.”

“You mean to cock block me? No way. I’m not doing anything to scare him off. It’s the most incredible sex of my life.”

“Promise me you’ll put Kirill on it today, or I’ll tell Dmitry.”

“Relax. I’m meeting Kirill tonight for drinks at the club. I’m sure he’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Maybe the limo was caught on a surveillance camera, and Kirill can get the license plate number. That would make it easy for him to track down his true identity.

On the other hand, I doubt someone hiding their identity is riding around in limos that can be traced back to their real name. Why is he still playing the game? I’m nobody important in the hierarchy of the bratva.

“True, but please be safe. I worry about you.”

“I will. I gotta go work on my resume, so wish me luck.”

“Luck,” she says before saying goodbye and hanging up.

I open my state-of-the-art electronic device, Dad bought me for college.

It has all the design software I needed for college.

If I get a job and need to work at home, I am equipped to do it.

Most designer jobs involve teams that share ideas, and each person is assigned a portion of the workload to determine what needs to be purchased.

In college, we spent a night at an Airbnb to get the area’s vibe.

Then, we worked together to make the colors neutral so the paint on the walls wouldn’t annoy anyone.

It also makes maintenance easy. We throw in a few pillows that are the same color, repeating it a minimum of three times to tie in the color throughout the rooms, and voilà, it’s finished.

That’s how it worked in fashion school. I’m conflicted about working with a team because group dynamics can be cutthroat.

I had to take some business classes in school.

I found the students were mean and withheld assignments from me.

Those students had the attitude that they knew everything, and no group discussions were held as outlined in the syllabus.

Not only was I excluded from that loop, but emails with my portion of the assignment also never reached my inbox.

To my horror, the group petitioned the teacher to remove me from the group for non-participation.

I spoke to the teacher, who wasn’t sympathetic.

I realized all of this two weeks before a website had to be live for the professor to grade it.

I took matters into my own hands and hired a web designer to outdo these petty classmates.

I handed in the written paper with the help of a graduate student and received an A in the class.

I could have done without the drama, but I’ll make the impossible possible when push comes to shove.

With my resume in hand, I searched online for job openings. I found cabinet sales, window treatment sales, and furniture. Ugh. There is no way I’ll be a floor salesperson. How is that even related to design? I’m about to give up when I see an interior design assistant opening.

The job requirements are for conceptualizing design projects, scheduling oversight, and overseeing the delivery of goods and installations as required.

I’m qualified, and the pay is adequate. I have minimal experience, but I’m not asking for a lead position.

The company’s name, Indio Designs, sounds legitimate, and their location is nearby.

I filled out the application, attached my resume, and clicked the submit button.

I admit my odds of success aren’t good. I have no work experience outside my internship.

The position is likely to be filled by a seasoned professional.

I have time to kill before I meet Kirill, so I pull on yoga pants and a T-shirt and head to the yoga studio. The weather outside is brisk but warm enough to walk to the studio with my yoga mat tucked under my arm and my gym bag holding my wallet, phone, and towel slung over my shoulder.

Just my luck, when I get to the studio, they’re in between yoga classes, so I wind up waiting for the next class. It seems I spend my life waiting in lines or waiting for something to happen.

The prior class finally finished and rushed out of the room, and those of us waiting politely entered the stuffy studio. The wooden floor is shiny, and floor fans are blowing the air because many bodies moving around have warmed the room.

I pick a spot and pull the yoga mat from my shoulder. I unroll it before I walk to the cubby to grab blocks and the straps needed for stretching.