HER ROYAL MAFIA
Crossing the room, I turned the handle with controlled ease and cracked the door open.
A young guy stood there, his grin stretching wide across his face, flashing teeth like a kid who’d just been handed the keys to a Lamborghini.
“Good morning, sir,” he greeted first, bright and rehearsed.
I took in the details—the hotel’s standard outfit, black cotton shirt tucked into matching trousers. His badge read ROHAN DANIEL. Explained the sharp features. Indian, maybe.
My hand slipped into my pocket, my fingers brushing the steel hidden there. My tone stayed even. “Is there a problem?”
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