Page 34 of Petrichor

Oh, he’s talking about the round-looking, spongy pasta I was enjoying before he started all this. But what the hell isthis? Does he seriously expect me not to take breaks? And why did he buy me dinner? Does he do it for all hiscrew?

I lift my hair up with both hands as I stretch my torso. My bruised rib protests slightly, but I kind of miss the sting Marco’s fingers created on my nape. His hand is so damn big, it enveloped the whole backof my head.

I wonder what a smile would look like on his serious face. His dark skin tone makes me think of sunlit waters and long days at the beach.

His unsympathetic words and the contrasting way in which he treats me should disgruntle me, but I can’t stop the contented smile from appearing on my lips.

“You’re bad news, room four B.” My landlord points a bony finger at me. The man has dog hearing. I pushed the building’s front door open on silent hinges and stepped into the shabby interior lobby as he walked out of his apartment with a glare toward me, like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“Good evening, Mr. Gruber.” I almost sigh. I’m tired and frustrated, don’t need his nagging right now.

“You keep giving food to those damn street cats, and they pee and shit all over the parking lot!” he hisses.

They do it even without the food. “I don’t anymore.” That’s a lie. I certainly do. They’re so skinny and cute.

“And another thug came asking about you today. I don’t know who you’re involved with, and I don’t give a crap. But I don’t want trouble.”

Another thug?

“I got punched because of you,” he keeps going, glowering at me with his beady eyes. He’s short as a stack of newspapers and smells like baby powder, but I’ve never met a greedier son of a bitch.

“I paid you for thetrouble,” I remind him. Fucking Jerry found out where I lived, and when he realized I wasn’t home, he vented on the landlord before jumping me that horrible night.

“Trouble.” That finger is on my face again. “I don’t want any!” he repeats.

I want to ask him about thatthugwho came today,but he’s already giving me his back and pushing the door of his apartment closed. “I want two weeks of rent in advance, or you’re out!”

Bam. Right in my face. The loud sound of his TV drowns out my repeated knocking on the door. And soon I give up.

I let out an angry grunt as I make my way to the stairs. Fuck! I’ll remain with no money if I pay him the two weeks in advance. And who was thethugwho asked about me? One of Jerry’s men? Maybe the creep found a way out of whatever Marco did to him? He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but what he lacks in intelligence he makes up for in slyness. And after what he almost did to me, it’s definitely plausible. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl. I won’t ever let that motherfucker touch me again—I still remember the sick pleasure in his eyes as he punched me.

I reach the second floor and stop in front of my door. When I find my key inside my bag, I make my way in. The sour, sharp tang I smelled the first time I entered is not much more than a faded memory, but it’s still lightly twined with other smells now—my forest splash candle and the sweet hot cocoa I usually drink before going to bed.

The room is tiny—the communal toilet is two doors down. My red sleeping bag is on the left under the small window near an ancient mini fridge and a camping stove. No TV, a small foldable table for my lingerie business, and a duffle bag containing a few clothes and another pair of shoes. I travel light since I seldomly stay long in one place. After Bailey died her son came and booted meout—even though I was the one taking care of her during her last years. I did it with pleasure. She was good to me, gave me a place to stay, and even left me some money in her will, not much, but I grabbed it and left without looking back.

It feels like this is the time to move on to the next place. But I don’t want to blow what little money I have by staying at a motel—not with an ongoing debt on my shoulders.

I took this room because the landlord didn’t ask for a deposit. But I don’t want to end up on the streets with no warning again. I better save and find a nicer place.

Phil, Rino’s owner, rented me the room above the bar until he had to renovate it, that’s how I ended up here. I heard he’s in need of more waitstaff. I could ask him if a position is still available. I’d have even less time to work on my lingerie, but it’d be just for a few months.

I send Art a text. When he doesn’t reply, I look at the time. He’s probably having fun the club. He’ll read it tomorrow. Maybe he knows some place I can stay, or he’ll let me sleep on his floor for a few nights. I’ve never been to his house but he’s the only person I know in NY. Except Marco. The mobster isn’t a welcoming person though. He blatantly told me he didn’t want me in his penthouse when he took care of my wounds. And I can’t ask him for more help.

Worst scenario, I can stay at the 24/7 diner near his place. Those booths are comfy, and the manager looks nice enough to let me nap for a coffee and a slice of pie.

I drop my bag on the floor and let my tired body fall on the sleeping bag—clothes and shoes still on. It won’t take long to gather everything since I don’t own much. I can work on some extra orders tonight and ship the personalized lingerie tomorrow. I need money. I stroke my eyes as my hand moves blindly over thefloor until it finds my bag. I grab my phone once again and start looking online for available studios or rooms.

I have no idea who the other thug the landlord was talking about is. Jerry or not, I don’t want to wait here like a sitting duck and find out.

Chapter Five

Marco

“How’s life with the wife?” Luca asks lightly, but I can clearly see the sharp look in his eyes.

We are in the car heading home. Jo is driving with Carlo next to him, while Luca’s crew is following us in a black Nissan.

Is he riding with me just to annoy me? I’m already at my fucking limit having Fly all over my place. His sweet, fresh-rain scent lingers in every room, frills and other pieces of lace and satin he uses to make his underclothes keep popping up on the floor, among the sofa cushions, on the kitchen counter. Also he started leaving yellow Post-it messages everywhere—on my bathroom mirror, fridge, glass door, even on my pillow. He makes little, inane drawings on them that drive me fucking crazy.

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