Page 11 of The Mafia King's Reign
"What am I supposed to do now?”
"Eat. You’ll need your energy.”
“No. I… I want to go home.” She just stands there unfazed, meanwhile, I feel my entire world caving in.
"Ms. Marino, relax. We want you calm, rested, and presentable."
"For what?"
She opens the door and gestures down the hall.
"To meet Mr. Vitale of course."
CHAPTER THREE
Valentina
The marble floor echoes beneath my heels as I’m led through the Vitale estate like a prisoner being escorted to her execution.
I almost never wear heels to work, but I decided to make a little extra effort. Purely for professional reasons. And maybe a tiny bit in case the mystery man came back.
Now I’m here, following a man in a suit through hallways that look like they belong in a museum, and all I can think is that I should have worn my loafers.
"Wait here." The guard gestures to a leather chair outside massive double doors. His face is blank, professional.
I sit because my legs won't hold me anymore.
The chair is obscenely comfortable. Soft Italian leather that probably costs more than most people make in a year. Certainly, more than I do.
Lindsay once dragged me into one of those high-end furniture stores, the kind most people only pass on their way to somewhere affordable. We saw a chair there, nothing nearly as nice as this one, that cost as much as a gently used car.
Which means this one… this one must cost a fortune.
The guard walks back out, steps aside, and positions himself in front of the doors, pulling me out of my thoughts and sending a rush of panic through me.
Whatever my father apologized for was bad enough that the Vitale family came for me.
My hands start shaking. I press them together, hard, trying to stop the trembling. Trying to hold myself together when everything inside me is screaming to run, run, run.
A man emerges. Younger, maybe mid-twenties, with dark hair and sharp features. He studies me with uncomfortable intensity.
"Valentina Marino." His voice is calm, measured. A statement, not a question.
I force myself to stand. "Yes."
"Elio Vitale. The Don's youngest brother. He’s ready for you."
No preamble. No comfort. No mercy.
He pushes the doors wider, and I'm looking into what can only be described as a throne room disguised as an office.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city. Dark wood paneling. Dark leather furniture "That's fitting," I think to myself. Original artwork on the walls. Is that a Caravaggio?
A bar cart stands nearby, crystal decanters filled with amber liquid that I assume is whisky.
And behind a massive mahogany desk, sitting like a king surveying his domain is… him.
Sal?
