Page 68 of Filthy Little Games

“Good. Keep it that way. Give me your phone number, and I’ll call you when I have a job for you.”

“I…um…I don’t have a phone.”

“You don’t have a phone?” I say in surprise.

“No, sir.”

Jesus. I should’ve realized that if the boy was fake robbing a discount store, then he doesn’t have the money to pay for a phone and monthly plan. It’s a good reminder not everyone is as lucky as I am. I guess I have my wife to thank for that reminder as well.

“Buy yourself a phone with that ten grand, even if it’s the cheap, pay by the minute kind, then call this number and tell him you’re our new errand boy,” I say as I pull out my wallet and hand him one of Lorenzo’s business cards.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Thank you, sir. Tell Zara…tell her I appreciate her help.”

“I will. Stay out of trouble,” I warn the kid. “You’re no good to me if your ass is in prison.”

“Yes, sir.”

And for some reason, I know not only will this kid be an indispensable employee to me, because he’s desperate to keep a roof over his sisters’ heads and food in their bellies, but I also think he’s got the kind of grit that will make him one hell of a man someday.

22

Zara

For the past two weeks, I’ve been lounging around Creed’s Park Avenue penthouse, bored out of my mind without any access to a phone or laptop. All I have is the television with every streaming app under the sun, and a digital photo frame that makes me sad every time I see my baby girl’s face without knowing when I’ll get to hold her in my arms again.

Oh, and I also now have a closet full of expensive clothes I’ll probably never wear, since Creed won’t let me leave the building.

That was a funny conversation with my husband when he told me he was going to have some clothes sent up for me. I said,“Finally. Although, I have gotten comfortable in just your jacket or tee. It’ll be nice to put on panties again.”

And his response?“Who said anything about panties?”

He did provide me with various undergarments, most of which are very lacy and sexy but not uncomfortable to wear.

He could’ve bought me two pairs of leggings, two tops, a few sports bras and a package of panties from Target, and I would’ve been happy to have a set of comfy clothes to wear while washing the other set.

Not that I’m allowed to do laundry, any cleaning, or cooking. There are daily staff who come and manage those chores. They all glare at me like I’m a threat to their positions whenever I offer to help.

Being waited on was nice the first week or so, but the longer I’m here, the more it reminds me of the months when I was spoiled and pampered, living in one of the Rovinas’ apartments before and while I was pregnant with Oriana. Until the evil assholes took my daughter and kicked me out on the street.

I can’t shake off the sense of dread that this little vacation as Creed Ferraro’s secret wife might end just as badly.

And each long day I go without seeing him, I worry that it’s one where Emilio succeeds in his next attempt on Creed’s life.

While there might not be any evidence of Emilio’s involvement in the club raid yet, I know he had a hand in it. Izaiah couldn’t tie his own shoes, much less try to take out the head of the mafia without significant help or acting on his father’s orders.

Creed has to know that much as well. Soon, I’m going to tell him the truth about Oriana’s father rather than let him go on assuming. But I’ve barely seen the don this week, and it feels like he’s avoiding me on purpose. I lie awake in bed, waiting until he finally comes in around midnight or so. Then he’s gone before I wake up the next morning.

Of course, I’m worried he’s distancing himself because he still doesn’t trust me. How can he after what happened to his brother?

If Creed trusted me, he’d let me use electronics by now. And he’d let me touch him since he’s reached those twenty-seven orgasms he promised me before it would be his turn.

One thing is for certain: if I can’t spend time with Creed, thenI’ll never have the chance to earn his full trust before he’s sent off to prison.

That’s why I’ve decided I’ve had enough waiting around and am determined to seek out my husband tonight.

“Where’s Creed?” I ask the guards at the door. The two large, imposing men in suits both wince at my direct question but neither respond.

“Is he out? Is he in the building? Is he alive?” I huff.

---