mafia king

Chapter 2: Unwanted Wake-Up Calls & Uninvited Guests

But I didn't. Instead, I let my frustration guide my fingers.

“If you strip away the flowery language, what’s left? A hollow story. A protagonist who feels more like a mouthpiece for the author’s philosophical ramblings than a real person. A plot that meanders without purpose. The prose is undeniably beautiful, but it’s like admiring a glass house…you can appreciate the craftsmanship, but there’s no warmth. No life.

Lady Seraphina Wrenford~”

I hesitate. My finger hovers over the post button. Once I send this out, that’s it. I can’t take it back. And while I know it’s unlikely Grayson Hale will ever see this review, there’s still that tiny, irrational part of me that wonders… What if he does? What if he finds it? Read it? Gets p*ss*d off?

I roll my eyes at myself. “ Get a grip, Leila. Authors don’t go hunting for bad reviews. And even if he did see it, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like I’ll ever meet him.” I thought.

Grayson Hale's name lingers on my lips, I remember the first time I saw his author photo.Grayson Hale's name lingers on my lips. I remember the first time I saw his author photo.Grayson Hale’s name lingered on my lips, and I remembered the first time I saw his author photo. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly handsome—the kind of man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine rather than behind a typewriter. But there was something more than just his looks, something darker. A mystery that clung to him like a shadow.

I’d heard whispers about him before I ever picked up his book. He was the son of Conrad Hale, a publishing mogul who built an empire with an iron fist. A man known for making and breaking careers with a single phone call. Yet, despite his father’s influence, Grayson carved his own path, eschewing nepotism and refusing to be another heir riding on a family name. He never accepted a single dime from the Hale fortune, an act of defiance that made him both admired and ridiculed in literary circles.

Some people called him a genius. Others called him pretentious. I think he might be both.And now, I’m about to hit "post" on a review that will undoubtedly place me in the second category.

I let out a breath. And then, before I can overthink it, I click and the review goes live.

I shut my laptop, and pushed it away like it might suddenly come to life and bite me. And a strange feeling of relief and regret settles in my chest. I crawl into bed, because exhaustion is pressing down on me, but my mind won’t quiet. Instead, it lingers.

On the book…

On my father’s words…

On Grayson Hale...The last thing I remember before sleep pulls me under is the image of him—the one I shouldn’t have looked up, but did anyway.

Grayson Hale.

I stared at the photo on my phone, unable to look away. He wasn’t posing, not really. Just sitting there, one arm resting on the back of a leather chair, his sharp features carved from shadows and angles. His icy blue eyes held that same unreadable intensity, like he saw everything and gave nothing in return. He didn’t smile. He didn’t have to. His presence alone demanded attention.

Arrogant. Condescending. Infuriating. And yet… something about him felt inescapable.

I traced his face with my eyes, lingering on the way his lips curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a scow.

THE NEXT MORNING

I woke up to the obnoxious buzzing of my phone, and the sound drilling into my skull like a jackhammer. I groaned, and reached for it blindly, knocking over a half-empty water bottle in the process. I squinted my eyes at the screen, immediately regretting checking it.

Aunt Helena.

I already knew what this was about. Bracing myself, as I swiped open the message.

Aunt Helena: Leila, darling! Look at this fine young man. Smart, successful, and owns three restaurants! Don’t ignore this one!

A picture was attached with the message and I loaded it. And not surprisingly it was a picture of a man in a navy-blue suit, standing next to a gleaming red sports car. And his teeth were so white they could probably guide lost ships home. He had the look of someone who spent more time admiring his reflection than engaging in actual conversation.

I let my head fall back against the pillow with a dramatic sigh. For the past year, Aunt Helena had made it her personal mission to find me a husband preferably one with a fat bank account.

What had started as harmless suggestions had spiraled into full-blown matchmaking warfare. Dossiers, unsolicited phone numbers, strategically placed blind dates. And the worst part? My Dad was in on it.

I groaned, as I begin typing out a quick response.

Me: Good morning, Aunt Helena. No, thank you.

I didn’t wait for a reply before tossing my phone onto the nightstand and dragging myself out of bed. And after a long, hot shower, I wrapped myself in a robe and padded to the kitchen, yawning as I opened the fridge and the contents inside the fridge were tragic.

A carton of milk (questionable expiration date), half a stick of butter, and a single yogurt cup that looked like it had given up on life. My gaze landed on the granola bar I’d abandoned last night. I grabbed it and took a bite.

“Breakfast of champions.’ I said to myself and just as I was contemplating whether coffee was worth the effort, my phone buzzed again. I didn’t even need to check.

Aunt Helena: Leila, sweetheart, I know you’re busy with those little book things you do, but you’re not getting any younger!

I choked on my granola bar. “Little book things?’Before I could type out an appropriately sarcastic response, another text came through.

Aunt Helena: At least meet him for coffee! He’s a millionaire, Leila!

“Ah, yes. The ultimate selling point. Forget personality….does he have a yacht?” I thought.

I set my phone down, and refused to get engaged with her. Instead, I focused on getting dressed. I shuffled into my closet,and rubbed the last remnants of sleep from my eyes. The doors were already ajar, it was revealing an organized mess, half-folded sweaters stacked on top of each other, dresses I hadn’t worn in ages shoved to one side, and shoes in a pile that could easily be mistaken for a minor landslide.

I stared at the contents like they would magically put together an outfit for me.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

I pulled out a black blazer, and inspected it for any mystery stains but it seemed safe. I paired it with a soft cream blouse and then reached for my go-to power pants…a pair of tailored black slacks that made me feel like I had my life together even if that was a lie.

After slipping into the outfit, I turned to my shoe collection. Heels? Absolutely not. I valued my ankles.

I grabbed my most reliable pair of black ankle boots instead, the ones that made a satisfying click on office floors but didn’t threaten to snap my spine in half. I was satisfied, before heading to the mirror.

My reflection stared back at me, a woman who looked about 75% ready to take on the day and 25% in need of another two hours of sleep.

My hair was another story. I pulled it into my signature messy bun, chic but effortless, or so I told myself and gave it a once-over. Some strands stuck out at odd angles, but I decided to let them live their best life.

I did my makeup which was a five-minute ordeal. A little concealer to erase the evidence of my questionable sleep schedule,and a swipe of mascara, and my favorite nude lipstick. Minimal effort, maximum illusion of competence.

I took a step back from the mirror, and gave myself an approving nod.

“This’ll do.”

As I was about to leave, the doorbell rang. and I froze. Mail? A package? A neighbor needing sugar? Or worse…I tiptoed toward the door and pressed my eye to the peephole. And my worst nightmare was confirmed.

Aunt Helena.

She was dressed in an elegant pastel pink coat, and dripping in pearls and determination, she stood outside my apartment door, tapping her Louboutin-clad foot. And her handbag probably worth more than my rent dangled from her wrist like a weapon.

I took a deep breath. I could pretend I wasn’t home. But before I could even step back, her voice pierced through the door.

“Leila, darling! I know you’re in there!”

I cursed under my breath. How? How did she always know? I pulled the door open.

"Aunt Helena," I said as politely as possible."Sweetheart!" She swept inside before I could even blink, and air-kissed both my cheeks like we were at a Parisian café instead of my tiny apartment hallway.

She made a slow, exaggerated turn, and her sharp eyes scanned my apartment like an interior designer judging a before picture. I shut the door behind her, and crossed my arms to my chest.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" I asked, but I guess I already knew the answer.

"Oh, I was just in the neighborhood!"

"You live twenty minutes away."

She waved her french manicured hand in the air. "Details, details." And she lowered herself onto my couch, and smoothing out her perfectly tailored coat like my furniture might offend it.

"So, darling," she began, and she folded her hands primly in her lap, "your father and I were talking—"

“ Oh, here we go.” I thought.

"....and we couldn’t help but notice that you are still, tragically, single."

"It’s not a crime, Aunt Helena."

"Of course not! But it is an emergency."

I flopped onto the armrest of my couch. "Oh, for the love of…?"

"Leila, sweetheart," she interrupted, and she reached out to pat my hand as if I were a delicate Victorian maiden on the verge of collapse.

"You’re thirty now. Do you know what that means?"

"That I can legally rent a car without an extra fee?"

"It means you’re at serious risk of becoming a spinster."

I choked on air. "A what?"

"You know, an unmarried woman. A woman who…" she lowered her voice like she was whispering an obscenity, "has to buy her own furniture."

I stared at her. "Aunt Helena, this isn’t the 1800s. I can buy a couch without it being a tragedy."

She ignored me, and reached into her purse with the precise elegance of a magician about to perform a trick. I watched in growing horror as she pulled out a thick, glossy folder.

I groaned. "No. Absolutely not."

She beamed, as she began flipping it open.

"Leila, darling, at least look. This one is Adam, he’s a hedge fund manager, plays golf, and…" she leaned in like she was offering me a f*******n secret " his family owns a vineyard in italy."

I groaned again,and rubbed my temples because she was giving me a headache.

"I don’t need a man with a vineyard, Aunt Helena. I have a wine subscription."

She sighed, and flipped the next page. "Fine. What about Ethan? He owns three successful restaurants. Imagine the free food!"

I snatched the folder from her and tossed it onto the coffee table. "Aunt Helena, no. No blind dates. No arranged marriages. No matchmaking schemes. I am perfectly happy."

"Leila, darling, I just want you to be happier."

I threw my arms out. "I am happy! I have a job I love, an apartment…okay, it could be bigger but I am fine."

She pursed her lips like she didn’t quite believe me. "But wouldn’t you be happier with someone rich?"

I stared at her. "That’s your sales pitch?"

She shrugged. "It’s a strong selling point."

I opened my mouth to argue but then I decided against it because there was no reasoning with her.

Aunt Helena exhaled dramatically, before standing up and smoothing out her coat. "Fine. I won’t push."

I narrowed my eyes. "Really?"

"Of course, darling," she said, and smiled too sweetly but I did not believe her.

She picked up her handbag and strolled toward the door, pausing just before she stepped out.

"Oh, and don’t forget to text me back about Ethan!"

She walked out of my apartment, leaving behind the scent of expensive perfume and exasperation. I, on the other hand, flopped onto the couch, feeling emotionally exhausted.

“I had survived another matchmaking ambush.” I thought, “But for now, I need to leave for the office.’