Page 15 of Filthy Little Games

Most people would probably be terrified of being held atgunpoint, but after enduring the whims of mobsters and working as a cashier at a corner discount store in New York City for the past three years, not much scares me anymore.

I actually prefer being robbed to being visited by sleezy mafiosos and sent on bullshit errands that end in bloodshed.

Two men are dead.

Not just any men, but the younger brother and club manager of the notorious mafia don, Creed Ferraro. Every time I close my eyes, I see that poor man bleeding out on the floor while Creed begged for help that never came.

If I’d known what Izaiah was planning when he sent me with his “warning,” I never would’ve agreed to do it.

Okay, I probably would’ve eventually agreed, since Izaiah no doubt would’ve threatened to never let me see Oriana again if I refused. But only then would I have caved.

Finally done with loading the bags of expired groceries and hoping it’s enough to get three kids through the week, I slam the trunk closed and give it a pat with my flattened palm. “You’re all set. See you next Thursday?”

“If you tell anyone who I am, you’ll fucking regret it.”

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy. My lips are sealed, just as long as you don’t shoot anyone, and you return this POS to whoever you stole it from before the sun comes up. I would hate for you to go down for grand theft auto.”

“Fine,” he mutters as he shoves his gun into the back of his tattered jeans and hurries around to the driver’s side.

“Have a good night. Drive safe. Oh, and keep that gun away from your sisters!” I shout at him before I walk back into the storeroom through the loading dock and lock up.

About three months ago, Eugene came in and tried to rob me while I was working the front register. I explained to him that there wasn’t much cash on hand. After all, most items on the shelves are less than five dollars, and everyone uses debit or creditcards nowadays. That’s when I explained to him he’d probably be better off stealing bags of groceries.

He finally admitted in defeat that he was a high school dropout just trying to feed his two little sisters.

So, I made Eugene a deal.

Every Thursday, I discreetly round up all the expired products, the loaves of bread going bad, any produce or fruit that’s seen better days, frozen goods close to expiring, and “accidentally” opened toiletry items. I toss it all into seasonal bags in the storeroom and then hand them over when he pulls up to “rob” me somewhere between nine and ten at night while his sisters are sound asleep. The gun is simply to keep me from losing my job if my manager finds out what I’ve been doing. There aren’t any working cameras in the store or alley, but I can’t risk my paycheck.

Actually, I think it’s sweet that Eugene loves his siblings enough to rob shitty little groceries stores for them. He’s never mentioned his mom or dad, and I’ve never asked about them because I know all about having wretched parents.

Sometimes, during the week when Eugene is really desperate, he comes in as a regular customer and walks out with more than he paid for in his pockets to hold him over until Thursday.

Do I feel guilty for giving the kid, who isn’t old enough to vote, the store’s expired goods or letting him shoplift? Hell no. I do the job of two people, working ten or twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week, as an assistant manager, and I can still barely feed myself after paying rent.

Just like Eugene said, killing mewouldput me out of my misery. Because that’s all this life is.

I’m sick of trying to do the “right” thing and be a good person when all that’s gotten me is sore feet, an empty bank account, and a life that consists solely of working and sleeping. Oh, and eating obviously. I tend to eat to ease the pain of having such a pathetic existence.

I wish I could say that I made bad decisions that led to my demise. The truth is, I’ve always been at the mercy of other people’s demands, constantly manipulated. Just like when Izaiah made me go to that damn club and set up a don for a morning at the zoo with my daughter.

While the Rovinas like to pretend that I have a choice, I never do. And unfortunately, their constant manipulation is not going to stop anytime soon.

This is the shitty hand life has dealt me, so I have no choice but to play it.

It’s close to midnight by the time I walk home and get to take a cool shower to wash away the day’s dirt and sweat. I comb my fingers through my long, sodden curls and pile the wet strands on top of my head in a messy bun, then wrap an old, nearly see-through beach towel around my still damp body, tucking it into the front of my chest. It’s way too muggy to put on clothes just yet, and I’m not yet tired enough to sleep after my twelve-hour shift.

Strolling out into my slightly cooler seven-hundred square foot apartment, I debate killing the air conditioner to open the window and save a little on my electric bill when my bare feet come to an abrupt halt.

“Oh, shit.”

A massive, manspreading mobster sits in the middle of my ratty sofa with my broken-hinged laptop on his lap. There’s a big-ass gun with a silencer on the muzzle, lying a fingertip away from his thigh on the cushion next to him. He’s staring at me over the top of the crooked screen with a clenched, unshaven jaw.

“Hello,Zara.”

His deep, rumbling voice and clipped words make it clear he is not messing around.

Tall, dark, and dangerously handsome in his flawless black suit, he stares back at me with nothing but violence brimming in his eyes. With his wavy, shoulder-length jet-black hair and aura of wrath, he looks exactly how I imagine death would look if it was masquerading as a human.

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