The Mafia King’s Doll

Samantha

It feels like my stomach is spinning from the anxiety coursing through me.

When I step out of the elevator, my hands begin to tremble, and I keep swallowing hard on the lump of fear stuck in my throat.

I’ve worked for this man for over a year. I’ve been his PA for six weeks. I’m just going to pretend he’s not a mob boss and do my work.

Reaching my desk, I stare at the mess. There are sticky notes everywhere, a dirty coffee mug, and candy wrappers.

I read the note stuck against my computer’s screen.

Sorry. There was just too much work. Gloria.

Pulling it off, I let out a sigh as I toss it in the trashcan. I place my handbag in the bottom drawer and switch on my computer before I put on the wireless earpiece and take the phone off voicemail.

Taking a seat at my desk, I check all the sticky notes and organize the work into piles.

By the looks of things, Gloria did nothing but eat candy at my desk.

When the phone rings, I quickly answer, “Mr. Vitale’s office, Samantha speaking.”

“The eagle has landed,” Charlotte, from reception whispers. “I repeat.

The eagle has landed.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “Thanks. I owe you.” “Anytime.”

Ending the call, I get up and head to the kitchen. When I prepare Mr.

Vitale’s coffee, my hands won’t stop trembling.

With every passing second, my heart beats faster, and my anxiety spikes.

Vitale Health is a legitimate company. I’m just the PA to the CEO. There’s no such thing as the mafia.

Damn, no matter how I try to convince myself, it’s not working.

I work for one of the heads of the Cosa Nostra. There’s no way to sugarcoat it.

When I reach for the box of cookies, I notice it’s almost finished and make a mental note to get more during lunch.

I arrange the coffee and two cookies on the tray and carry it to Mr. Vitale’s office. As always, I set it down on his desk, but when I turn around, it’s to see him stalking toward the office.

Crap. It’s too late to run to my desk.

He’s wearing a black suit and looks like he’s on a mission to kill someone. His eyes lock on me, and I feel the intensity in them burn right through me.

God help me.

“Morning, Miss Blakely,” he says, his tone clipped. “I trust you had a good vacation?”

“Morning, Mr. Vitale,” I reply, my voice sounding like I sucked on a helium balloon.

He walks to his desk and takes off his jacket. When he drapes it over the back of the chair, my eyes lock on the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants.

Jesus.

Did he always carry a gun?

“Do you need something?” he asks as he takes a seat at his desk.

“Ahhh…” I swallow hard. “Will you reconsider accepting my resignation?”

“No.” His eyes narrow, and it makes fear slither down my spine. “Let’s make a couple of things clear. One, you will not resign. Two, you will not mention who I am to anyone. Three, stop looking at me like you’re about to shit yourself. I said I won’t hurt you, and I’m a man of my word.”

I nod like a crazy person.Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

Too brave for my own good, I ask, “You say you won’t hurt me, so what will happen if I just leave?”

The look in his dark brown eyes tells me not to even try.

“I’ll find you and drag you back, kicking and screaming, if I have to. I’d hate to do that, so don’t force my hand.”

Right. Kicking and screaming.

He nods in the direction of the door. “Get to work, Miss Blakely. You have a lot to catch up on.”

I spin around and hightail it to my desk. When I plop down on my chair, the air wooshes from my lungs.

My phone rings and seeing Mr. Vitale’s extension, I let out a groan before I answer, “Yes, Sir.”

“Shut the door behind you.” “Yes, sir.”

“Also, I’m only here for an hour, so if you need anything signed urgently, get it ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

The call ends, and I get up to shut the door before returning to my desk.

I throw myself into my work, hoping it will distract me from the mob boss in the office next door.

My fingers fly over the keyboard, and I try to get as much ready as possible for Mr. Vitale to sign, because the sooner he leaves, the better.

An hour later, when he comes out of his office, I place a pen on top of the pile of documents and say, “Please sign everywhere I’ve marked with an X.”

He picks up the pen, and leaning over my desk, he scribbles his signature on the first document.

I quickly remove it from the pile, and as he keeps signing beside every X, I keep taking the papers so he doesn’t lose momentum.

Within minutes, he’s done, but instead of setting the pen down on the desk, he holds it out to me.

I hesitate at first but push through and take it from him.

“Don’t schedule any appointments for this week,” he orders. “I’ll only be in the office for an hour tomorrow morning, so have everything ready when I come in.”

“Yes, sir.” I swallow hard on the constant lump in my throat. “Have a nice day, sir.”

His eyes lock with mine. “You too, Miss Blakely.”

When he walks away, I deflate in my chair and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

Thank God he won’t be here the whole day.

I take a moment to gather my bearings before I straighten in my chair and get back to work.

While I deal with one job after the other, my thoughts turn to yesterday, and slowly, a smile spreads over my face.

Just two days, and I’ll finally see my mystery man’s face.

After he left, it sunk in that I finally shared my trauma with someone and he didn’t run for the hills.

Instead, he kissed me and told me he loved me.

And boy, what a kiss.

It was toe-curling and mind-blowingly good, and I felt it in my soul.

Just two days.

I can’t wait.

I swear, the man can look like Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and it won’t change how I feel about him.