Page 37 of Mafia King's Forbidden Obsession

Abruptly, I stop, my eyes fixed on the flower vase in front of me. Slowly, a smile spreads across my face. A new idea takes root…a different kind of escape.

I shuffle to the bed before sitting, going over this plan in my head. I know Ezra wants me—it’s clear in the way he looks at me. His body language betrays a hunger he can’t quite hide.

This time, I’m going to use it to my advantage.My body…my charm, if I have any.

I must get Ezra to fall for me—make him desire me. If I can win his heart, maybe, just maybe, I can make it out of this hellhole. It isn’t a perfect plan; however, it is my last resort.

A key jiggling in the lock sidetracks my thinking. The first guard always comes with breakfast sometime around 9 a.m. I glance out the window and take note of the orange-streaked sky–the day is just breaking.

Could it be Ezra? Only he comes to my room at unexpected times. But this early is unusual, even for him.

The door finally unlocks and swings open to reveal a man in a long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans. He's the same one that brought my nightwear. “The Don wants to see you. Stitch room,” he says, his voice rough and emotionless.

Elation shrouds my heart. This is it− an opportunity to set the ball rolling. As I'm about to jump out of bed though, horrendous thoughts of the stitch room fill my mind again, but I don't let them linger. I'm not going to sulk and let a good opportunity pass me by.

I get out of bed, smoothing out the wrinkles in my flowery pink pajamas and running a hand through my hair. Forcing a smile to calm my racing pulse, I follow the guard out of the bedroom.

I can do this. I have to.

I need the ice-cold boss to see me differently—more than just a hostage, more than a woman who should not have stumbled into his world. I need to become anirresistibleasset.

As I stroll with the guard down the corridor, I thoughtfully review my strategy. Subtle but clear. I have to walk a fine line—make him think he is in control while I slowly pull the strings.

Men like Ezra? They thrive on control. I’ll be more than happy to give him that illusion.

We arrive at the entrance to the stitch room, and the guard motions for me to go inside. A throbbing sensation vibrates through my body, yet my face is a mask of serenity.

Play it cool now. Don’t fuck this up, Raven.

I push the door open and enter. Ezra is sitting on an operating table by a set of tools under the brightness of the fluorescent lights, shirtless.

And we’re alone. How splendid!

When I get closer, a big gash on his shoulder begs for my attention. I immediately take a look. It isn’t too deep, and it doesn't look like a gunshot wound, but it is pretty nasty. My mouth moves before I can stop it. “What happened?”

Ezra barely glances down, like the cut did not exist. “You don’t want to know,” he replies, adjusting himself on the table such that both of his strong thighs are spread apart.

I gulp, feeling an overwhelming urge to sit on his lap, but I peel my eyes from the sight. He’s probably right. I really don’t need the gruesome details.

Pushing the thought aside, I channel my concentration on the wound. This is why he called. I furrow my brows as I eye the wound with scrutiny.

The blood has dried up, and it doesn't look like it bled too much, either. Did he clean it? No, the wound still looks messy. Or did he just hesitate to call me? Because he’s still mad at me for not saving the man from yesterday?

My hands are steady, which surprises me, but I focus on the task.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn him, lowering myself to his shoulder. This part of his shoulder is bare, with no tattoos.

I don't know why, but he chooses that exact moment to stare at the wound.

Now the problem isn't him staring. It’s his breathing that falls directly on my face. Our proximity raises the hair on my spine and almost makes me lose balance as my knees quake. I hate how affected I am by him.

Will this ever stop?

“It won’t,” he breathes.Oh. I raise my eyes to his, and that's when I realize he's replying to my warning.

“Oh.” I release an awkward chuckle, bringing my gaze away from his full lips. As I start to clean his wound, I wonder if he doesn't have a doctor or if there was a doctor before me and what happened to them.

He doesn't flinch when I place a cotton wool soaked with spirit on the wound. Slowly, I dab the cotton on the wound, cleaning it until there is no more blood visible in the surrounding area. Now that I see it well, it looks like a flesh wound. Like something long and pointed grazed him deeply.

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