The mafia made me do it(art of loving a mafia)

How is this logically possible? How did I get here? How did I find myself standing in front of the most successful and intellectual businessman in the whole of New York? He's so handsome, tall, and well-built. With that tattoo peeking out of his dress shirt. I just want to walk over to him and seductively pull down the shirt to know what that tattoo is. His teeth are perfect, too perfect, and his eyes? They're staring at me with so much intensity that I have to squeeze my thighs together. His hands are thick and big, not too big that it'll be weird. It makes me wonder what they can do, probably stack papers and sharpen pencils? They're a few scars also peeking from the sleeves. “Why do you keep staring?” A voice questions. I look up and meet his eyes, the intensity of the stare never flattering. It's like he's trying to pull me in. He's asking why I keep staring, but he's doing the same too. I clear my throat. How can someone's voice send vibrations to the deepest parts of your body? His voice is as thick as can be and has this raspy tone to it. “I wasn't staring at all.” I lie. Who in their right mind won't stare at you? “Hmm” he hums. He does a 90-degree turn on his chair and stands from his seat. My knees buckle. He continues walking towards me, each step echoing throughout the office walls. I could feel the heat emitting from my body, I exhale. He stops just a few meters away from me, his shadow completely eating my whole form up and blocking the sunlight coming from the office window, and then he grins. “You're here for the interview, aren't you?” He asks. “Yes. I submitted my portfolio a few weeks back and got invited for an interview.” I stand my ground. I know what he's trying to do. He's trying to intimidate me, make me shiver in fear and submission. If this were an omega verse world, I'd be a mess on the floor, with the amount of alpha hormones he's emitting. “And you think you're capable for the job?” His grin widens. I'm about answering before he cuts me off. “Because from what I see, you physically and mentally lack numerous qualities. And that's disappointing” he states. I arch an eyebrow, “really? And what exactly do I lack?” I stare him down. He's eyes travel round my entire form before finally landing on my face. He takes a step closer and I unconsciously back away. “Well for starters,” he grabs a few strands of my hair and twirls it around his index fingers. I shiver from the light skin contact we had, “I prefer blondes, not Burnett's. And secondly, you're tiny, so tiny I could break you.” He slightly tugs on the strand of hair he has a hold of. I wince in pain, well, mostly. In situations like this, the most reasonable thing to do is walk away, but for some insane reason, maybe because I'm already angered or the fact that my day started badly, I bite back. “You sure those aren't qualities you so desire?” I tease. It's faint, but he's eyes grow bigger and his eyebrows move up with shock. His finger, which I almost forgot were twirling my hair, goes stiff. He opens his mouth to counter my statement, but I didn't give him that opportunity. I pull his hands away from my hair and move back “you know, for someone who countless people, including myself, hold in high esteem; you're extremely rude and perverted. Fix your attitude. Sir.” I bow slightly, still trying to give him the respect he supposedly deserves, and walk towards the door. My hand holds on to the door knob for a few seconds before he speaks up “you're honestly something new” he chuckles, “See you around, Debra Santiago.” He walks back to his chair and I slam the door shut. Something tells me an adventure just began. . . . . And honestly, I was very right