The Blind Boy I Picked Up Was the Mafia Don Chapter 02
“Miss Clark, you-” Leo looked at me, confused.
“Sorry, wrong button.” I ducked my head, pitched my voice low, and did my best impression of an old-school crooner.
Luckily, Alexander didn’t seem to care. He just walked right in.
His official height was 187 cm-broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs, built like a model. You couldn’t help but look twice.
But I held back, stood as far from him as possible, and rubbed my thumb over the scar on my wrist.
The elevator crawled down from the 33rd floor.
More and more people squeezed in, and the space between Alexander and me shrank.
A guy in front kept backing up, about to step on my foot, when Alexander silently moved in front of me, blocking him.
For a second, I couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or just shifting his weight because his legs were tired…
Knowing him, probably the latter.
In that cramped box, I had nowhere to go. I was practically pressed against Alexander, close enough to smell his light, comforting scent.
And that brought back some… body memories I’d rather not have.
Most people don’t know this, but Alexander doesn’t wear cologne. Still, there’s always a clean, soapy smell to him.
Seven years ago, whenever I was stressed, I’d ambush him, tackle him onto the couch, and bury my face in his neck, breathing him in.
When I got too rowdy, he’d try to calm me down, fumbling to lift his shirt just enough to show off his lean waist and abs, his ears red as if they might bleed, while he rasped,
“Ma’am… five seconds. That’s it.”
The sight of those mouthwatering lines, the soft yet firm feel of his skin, the heat-
it all blurred with the cold, untouchable, standoffish Alexander standing in front of me now.
I shook my head, trying to shake those thoughts off, but my heart was already racing.
To distract myself, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through Twitter, landing on a post about Isabella Vitelli, the Vitelli family’s princess.
The Corleones and Vitellis had worked together for years, and Isabella had been betrothed to Alexander since they were kids.
Alexander was famous for being indifferent to women. Back when he lived with me, he was as chaste as a nun in a cathedral.
One time, an actress pretended to be drunk at a party and fell on him. The next day, she was blacklisted.
But he’d been photographed with Isabella multiple times.
Not long ago, the cheap iron ring Alexander always wore on his finger went viral online.
Everyone was guessing who the girl behind the ring was.
Isabella quickly posted a picture of a similarly tacky bracelet on Twitter, sparking a wave of shipping frenzy.
But that ring looked exactly like the prize I’d won at a street fair.
The thing was so ugly that when I brought it home, I tossed it to Alexander as a throwaway gift…
He must have kept wearing it all these years as a reminder of the humiliation he’d suffered.
Seven whole years. You’d think old grudges would fade.
I thought all that was water under the bridge. That’s why I had the nerve to come back.
Turns out Alexander held a grudge like nobody’s business.
“Ms. Clark.”
I’d barely taken a few steps off the elevator when I heard Alexander’s voice behind me.
“Don Corleone?” With so many colleagues around, I stood my ground and pitched my voice even lower.
Alexander walked toward me, and everyone nearby turned to stare.
“Leo tells me you got your master’s and PhD abroad and just started working here last month.”
“Yes. Is there something you need, Don Corleone?” I just wanted this over with.
“Ms. Clark, welcome to Corleone Holdings. I hope we have a pleasant working relationship.”
Alexander extended his hand. I was about to shake it when I remembered the scar on my wrist.
Alexander couldn’t see it, but he knew it existed.
I stepped back, hid my hand behind my back, and thought fast.
Made up an excuse: “Sorry, Don Corleone, my hand’s hurt. I’ve got medicine on it-still drying.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Ms. Clark, are you afraid of me?”
“No, not at all! You’re so… benevolent. I mean, approachable.” I forced a light laugh, but my heart was in my throat.
The girl seven years ago never would have guessed that the soft, pretty, blind-as-a-bat boy she’d pushed around would seven years later have an aura so strong you didn’t dare look him in the eye.
“Or is ‘Ms. Clark’ too formal? Would ‘Ma’am’ feel more familiar?”
Alexander lowered his voice, his narrow eyes locked on me like a lone wolf that had finally spotted its prey, hungry and glowing green.
I felt all the blood in my body freeze. It took me a moment to find my voice.
“I am a few years older than you, Don Corleone. If you want to call me ‘Ma’am,’ I won’t stop you. But my boyfriend’s waiting for me to come home and feed the baby. Gotta go.”
As the saying goes, on the road, you make up your own identity.
I kept my cool, acted natural.
Tone, pitch, smile-flawless.
But I forgot to hide my real voice.
By the time I realized my mistake, Alexander’s deep eyes had already darkened, like he could see right through me.
That clear, cold voice from his youth, now seasoned with time and power, dropped even lower as he leaned in, his presence overwhelming.
“Emily Clark. Was it fun messing with me?”