by Nicole Fox
I’ll beg if I have to.
But please, for the love of God, just give me a bite of food.
He cocks his head to the side, eyeing me up and down as though he’s only just thought of something.
Except, I know better than that.
Whatever’s coming next is going to be a tempting piece of bait on the end of a very nasty hook.
No one was ever nice for nothing.
“Hmm. Maybe we can work something out,” he murmurs. His eyes linger on my breasts.
I stay frozen where I am as he takes a step towards me and raises his hand. My eyes clamp shut in horror and I brace like I’m about to get hit by a bus.
But the awful touch I’m expecting doesn’t come.
Instead, Mickey’s fingers brush against a strand of loose hair that’s come apart from the messy bun at the back of my head. He tucks it behind my ear.
It’s almost tender, in the weirdest possible way.
But his intentions are not.
They never are.
This is an ugly world, and men like Mickey—power-hungry, obsessed with money and control and not a damn thing else—are the ugliest part of it.
This close, I can see the wealth of nose hair in his engorged nostrils. He reminds me of a bull in heat.
I cringe away from him when his tongue slashes down across his bottom lip.
“Nothing comes for free, little lady,” he sneers at me.
Don’t I fucking know it.
“What do you want from me?” I ask directly.
His stubby hand reaches down and cups the bulge at his crotch. I can tell he’s already erect, and my stomach turns with nausea. The hunger takes a back seat for the moment.
Silver linings, I guess.
“Get on your knees,” Mickey hisses, “and make me happy. Then I might be able to give you another two weeks on your rent.”
This son of a bitch.
I’ll die before I give him that.
“I’m not a fucking whore,” I lash at him. My face is flushed with anger.
His expression turns dark at the rejection. “No? Pity. Coulda fooled me.”
The frustration of my day catches up with me in that moment. I can’t fucking deal with this shit.
I get groped enough at my day job.
I don’t need this shit when I come back home.
Not that it’s much of a home, but still—it’s all I have.
Or all I had, at least. Without it, what do I have to lose?
Fuck this place.
Fuck the cockroaches on my feet and the lights that never work and the elevator that’s always broken.
And most of all, fuck Mickey himself.
This arrogant and depraved fucking creep who thinks he can say things like that to me, who thinks he can dangle his nasty cock in my face like a carrot and use my desperation to get his rocks off.
No.
Not today.
Not ever.
The slap I deliver to his smug fucking face takes us both by surprise. Mickey staggers backwards, his eyes dazed for a second before they focus on me.
And then all hell breaks loose.
“You ungrateful little cunt!” he roars.
He lunges for me, but I manage to dart to the side, narrowly escaping under his arm. I cling to the bag draped across my shoulder as I hurtle towards the staircase.
I can feel him in hot pursuit. He’s huffing and panting as we both thunder down the stairs.
But I’m as fast as he is disgusting. And that fat piece of shit probably hasn’t broken an intentional sweat in years.
So, by the time I burst out of the side door and back out into the night, I’ve lost him.
I don’t stop running and I don’t look back.
Not until I’ve put at least a dozen blocks between me and that human-sized rat.
When I’m confident that he’s given up the chase, I take a moment to breathe. I sag against the vandalized walls of an empty lot and gulp for oxygen greedily. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard it hurts.
Breathe, Charlotte. Breathe.
Eventually, my heartrate settles back down and I get my breathing under control.
Then the hunger comes back.
And the dread.
And the fear.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath.
How can I go back there now?
I don’t have much to my name, but what little stuff I do have is now locked behind that bastard’s cheap, rickety door. Stuff that I’m pretty sure is going to go up in a dumpster fire now that I’ve pushed Mickey over the edge.
A car drives past with music blaring. I see a blonde teenage boy’s head sticking out of the passenger’s seat.
I brace myself for the worst—and I’m disappointed to be one hundred percent right.
He mimes a dick-sucking gesture at me. “Wassup, sexy?! Wanna lick my cock tonight?”
The car zooms away before I can answer and leaves me in the darkness.
Just once, I’d like to be proven wrong about men.
Tonight is not that night.
With nowhere else to go, I start the long walk back towards downtown.
I wish that I was wearing something other than this uniform. The skirt is too short and the shirt and vest are too tight.
I might as well be wearing a sign on my back that says, Harass me.
Not that it matters if I was. The men in this part of the city don’t need that much of an invitation.
They take that initiative all on their own.
The air outside feels colder than it did before. I shiver and keep walking for a while in a kind of trance.
I’m thinking about everything and nothing at once—Mrs. Hammond and my mother and Mickey. They’re all merging together in my delirious brain, until I’m imagining Mama’s head with Mrs. Hammond’s earrings on top of Mickey’s body.
The hallucination is as grotesque as it sounds.
Something pries me back to reality—the smell of cheese.
I grind to a halt as the scent of fresh, gooey mozzarella fills my nostrils. When I pivot, I drink in the welcome sight of a classy-looking Italian restaurant.
It looks authentic and friendly. White tablecloths and red lanterns hanging over the door, bathing everything in a warm, gentle light.
The hand-painted sign out front bears a name: “Il Dolore e Il Piacere.”
I’m pretty sure that’s Italian, but it might as well be Klingon for all that I can decipher it.
Not that any of that concerns me in the slightest.
The only thing I care about at the moment is getting something substantial into my stomach.
I walk inside, still in a daze. I don’t even care that I look like hell warmed over.
The last of my fucks to give just went fluttering away in the wind.
I sink gratefully into a seat at the first table I see.
“What can I get you?” a skinny waiter asks when he appears at my shoulder.
“Spaghetti Bolognese,” I say immediately without even bothering to glance at a menu. “And pumpkin ravioli. And a pitcher of water please—I’m thirsty.”
He raises his eyebrows with amusement. “Hungry, eh?”
“Starving,” I confirm. “So if you could—”
“Ask the chef to cook like the wind?” he offers.
I nod, too tired for words and grateful for a friendly face.
He walks away with a smile, only to return a minute later with a basket full of warm bread rolls and butter.
I actually want to leap to my feet and kiss him full on the mouth.
But I manage to restrain myself.
Just barely.
“Bless you,” I sigh gratefully, grabbing a soft bread roll.
It’s in my mouth before he’s even walked away. I hear him chuckling under his breath, but I’m past the point of caring.
Honestly, this is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.
By the time my plates of spaghetti and ravioli ar
rive, I’ve polished off all the bread rolls, but I’m still hungry.
I eat diligently, keeping my eyes on my food and nothing else. I finish all of both dishes at lightspeed. It takes all of my willpower not to lick the plates clean.
But when I put down my fork, I feel leagues better.
I reach for my bag and start rummaging around in the chaos inside there, hunting for my wallet. This was an expensive indulgence and I’ll be regretting it later when I burn through the very last of my cash.
But worth it, I think. An hour ago, I’d have probably sold my body in exchange for a bite of food.
The thing is, though, that it looks like I might have to do that anyway.
Because my fingers are coming up with nothing. Totally empty.
My wallet is gone.
I frown, pull my bag into my lap, and stick my head inside.
Kleenex, hair ties, deodorant…
But no wallet.
I’m starting to get frantic. I shove the plates to the far side of the table and upend my bag, dumping all the contents onto the tablecloth. Tubes of chapstick go bouncing off. Receipts flutter out.
Still no wallet.
A few of the other diners are giving me weird looks as I scavenge through all my crap.
Please be in here. Please be in here. Please be—
“Fuck!”
A few more heads swivel in my direction when I curse, but I don’t have the energy to apologize.
It’s not here.
It must have fallen out at some point during my mad dash away from Mickey. Which means I’ve gone from having “not much” to less than that.
All the euphoria of a full belly is gone now.
That familiar, icy dread is back in its place.
The waiter comes back over and sets the check down on my tabletop with a friendly smile. I try to give him one in return, but it feels like my face forgot how to operate. I end up just grimacing at him like a psycho.
“Th—thanks,” I mutter, blushing hot and red.
I pick up the check with trembling fingertips.
Forty-six dollars plus tax.
Fuck. Me.
I really have only one option. I hate it with every fiber of my being.
But I don’t have a choice.
I glance around. There’s a well-dressed couple at the table opposite mine and a bunch of men crowded into a booth across the restaurant.
Only one waiter manning the floor, with a second behind the cash register.
I can do this. I have to do this.
I’ll come back another day and pay what I owe.
For now, I just have to move fast.
I wait until the waiter heads back into the kitchen, and then I slide out from behind my table. I keep my head down as I walk fast towards the exit.
The kitchen doors swing open again—too soon, sooner than I expected.
Fuck, fuck, fuck…
“Hey… hey, ma’am… your bill—”
I slam my hands into the front door, my legs already accelerating into sprint mode. The other diners gasp as I burst out onto the sidewalk.
For the second time in as many hours, I’m running from a man.
At least this time I deserve it.
The night is oddly quiet in this neck of the woods. Not many pedestrians, not many cars. Just me and the sound of my own heavy breathing in my ears.
That is, until…
“Riccardo! Catch her!”
A man lounging on the corner ahead turns and steps into my line of vision. He’s a big, beefy guy with scary eyes, the kind of person you cross the street to avoid. He’s got a cigarette in hand but he throws it down the moment he sees me.
I grind to a halt, trying to change my trajectory. But it’s too late.
I’m going too fast. Too much momentum.
The man’s thick, powerful hand clamps down on my shoulder. He pins me against the wall, just as the waiter comes hustling up to us.
His once-kind eyes are now glazed with anger.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for the dine and dash type,” he snarls.
“Let go of me!” I snap.
The waiter starts to say something else, but the beefy guy who grabbed me intercedes.
“Leave her to me,” he says.
He keeps a firm hand on me as he steers me effortlessly back towards the restaurant. His smell invades my nostrils—cheap cologne, sweat, and cigarette smoke.
I struggle the whole time, but he remains unimpressed by my efforts. We both know I don’t stand a chance of breaking free. He’s three of me in every direction.
He pulls me into the back of the restaurant, past the gawking diners, and shoves me stumbling into what looks like an old furnace room.
It’s hot as fuck in here. Probably because there are no windows.
Not a single route of escape except for the door I was just thrown through.
And there’s a very big man there who’s intent on keeping that option closed.
I try and run at him anyway, but he pushes me back easily.
“Sit the fuck down,” he orders.
“Like hell I will!”
He sighs impatiently. He looks even bigger in here. His head scrapes the ceiling and his shoulders span the entire width of the door.
“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”
I don’t bother answering. Just glower at him.
Truth is, I feel guilty as hell for skipping out on the bill. But I didn’t have a choice.
And I really was going to come back when I could afford it.
Not that this ogre cares about any of that.
I’m anxiously waiting for what happens next—for him to call the cops, or hand me an apron and tell me to wash dishes until my hands bleed to pay for my meal.
But I’m not ready for what he actually says.
“Yeah, very feisty. You’re the type of gal who gets special treatment.” He turns and calls over his shoulder, “Hey, Giraldo, bring me the handcuffs.”
I freeze.
What the fuck?
2
Lucio
THE MANSION OF THE DON OF THE MAZZEO MAFIA—NEW YORK CITY
I run my finger around the edge of my tumbler. “I’m dry,” I tell Adriano. “Hit me.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he drawls sarcastically. “Right away, Your Highness. Forgive me for my trespasses, Your Highness.”
His green eyes flash with humor. They do that pretty much constantly. Very fucking irritating.
“Shut up and pour the damn drink, man,” I scowl.
My best friend and consigliere chuckles as he uncorks the Macallan twelve-year whisky we’re drinking and refills my glass.
“Any new intel on the Polish?” I ask when we’re both settled back in our leather armchairs with topped-off whiskeys.
“Not yet,” Adriano replies.
“Fucking hell, do I have to do everything myself?”
Adriano smirks. He’s the only one who can get away with that expression in my presence.
“You like doing everything yourself.”
“That’s beside the fucking point.”
Adriano takes a swig of his drink and looks through the files that litter my desk. “You need to hire a receptionist, mio amico.”
“I tried that,” I remind him. “Didn’t work.”
“Because you fired her.”
“She was touching my shit.”
“That was literally her job.”
I roll my eyes. “I can handle the accounts.”
“I know you can,” Adriano agrees. “My point is you don’t have to. Also—when you said earlier, she was touching your shit… did you mean your cock?”
Honestly, I roll my eyes so fucking much where Adriano is concerned, sometimes I wonder if they’re going to get stuck up there.
“How long have you been holding on to that one?” I sigh.
He shrugs, clearly very pleased with himself. “When you’ve got a good one, you gotta let it rip.”
“You give this organization a bad name.”
“Please. This whole operation would fall apart without me.”
I laugh in his face, long and loud, so he knows exactly what I think of that prospect.
Adriano takes another swig of his drink and gives me the finger. “Fuck,” he says. “She was hot.”
“Who was?”
“Tiffany,” he replies. “The receptionist you had before the last one. The one you used to fuck on this table.”
“He name was Tessa,” I correct him.
Adriano shakes his head. “It was Tiffany.”
“Was it? Huh. Well, she was a good lay.”
“Clearly,” Adriano says. “Why did you get rid of her again?”
“She got too fucking clingy.”
“Ah, that’s right,” Adriano nods. “Didn’t she refer to you as her boyfriend?”
“The day before I fired her,” I confirm. “Yeah.”
Adriano laughs. “She had a killer ass. I would’ve kept her around.”
“I can get plenty more where she came from,” I say dismissively. “She was a dime a dozen.”
“Can’t say I disagree, you handsome devil.”
“Speaking of dime a dozen, why are you here?” I drawl.
Adriano gives me his megawatt smile. The smile he uses in lieu of an answer.
“I’ve heard it on good authority that the Rosellis are planning a drug trade next week. Details are a little iffy, though.”
“Those fuckers are a pain in my side,” I growl. “We’ll have to take them out.”
“Last week, you said they were small fish,” Adriano reminds me. Another annoying habit he has.
“Yeah, well, last week they weren’t dealing on my fucking turf,” I reply. “A lesson needs to be taught. You can handle that, can’t you?”
Adriano salutes me with dramatic flair. “With pleasure.”
“Good,” I say. “They’ve already had one warning, so this time, feel free to break some bones.”
Adriano smiles. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
“And the drug shipment they’re planning on moving—”
“I’ll make sure to tell our guys to expect a fresh container late next week,” he finishes for me.
I nod approvingly. We have worked so long together that he knows exactly what I expect from him.
A knock on the door diverts my attention away from pleasant daydreams of dead Roselli mafiosos.