Page 9 of Ruthless Boss

I’ve been researching small towns I can move to, close to bigger cities but with lower living costs. I’d love to move to a big city where I can blend easily with the crowd, but that means needing more cash to get on my feet.

I need more money, regardless.

A few more months shall do. Then freedom will come.

I sit AJ on the grass as we sunbathe in the backyard. Even though she’s only seven months old, her father has already bought a playset and trampoline. You’d think she has older siblings.

I chew on my lower lip.

Dante knocked on my bedroom door two nights ago, carrying my naughty delivery. At the end of our conversation, when I asked him if he offered assistance, I meant to say it jokingly—to make it awkward for him so he’d have a minor embarrassment, as I felt when he opened the box I had ordered.

What followed was a twinkle in his eyes and a latent awareness. He didn’t take it as a joke, and for a flicker of a moment, he considered my offer. I may be flattering myself, but he entertained the idea of fucking me.

That thought alone injects excitement into my veins.

He doesn’t know why I need my toys. When I was married, I had the worst sex life with Ciro. He didn’t care for my pleasure, ever. The only way I came was using toys—which I kept hidden so he wouldn’t find out and have the perfect reason to beat the hell out of me or worse. Besides, using them now distracts me from overthinking when I’m alone at night—thinking about how my mom must be disappointed in me, wherever she is. I killed a man. Not just any man, but her former husband. At the time of her death, she still believed Aroldo to be a good enough person.

I don’t think he ever hit her; I would have known. During their short six-month marriage before her death, they established a routine. He was always between jobs, and after she died and I married Ciro—when the pretense ended—I found out why. He managed small deliveries for Ross Santini here and there.

As for Mom, she was a busy paralegal. She worked hard to provide for me—and thanks to early investments she made when she was younger, we lived in a beautiful home. She even had a lake house she rented from time to time for extra income.

What would Mom say if she found out I killed her husband and permanently injured mine?

Even though intellectually, I know I had to do these acts, the daughter in me is tethered to guilt. What would Dante do if he found out about what I did? His body count certainly outweighs mine, but I’m watching his daughter. I’m the help. Shouldn’t I be someone without blood in their hands?

AJ makes a laughing noise, and I run my finger down her nose.

“Girlfriend, you don’t know the half of it,” I tell the chunky baby.

My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen.

No one has my phone number except Chevy, Tara, and Dante. Of course, I bought a prepaid smartphone after I fled home and made a point not to give it out to anyone unless strictly necessary. Chevy got it from my work application form, and Tara needed it because we eventually texted about work schedules. I doubt that Dante is calling me from an unknown number.

I choose to accept the call but don’t speak. Instead, I hold the phone against my ear and wait.

The little hairs on the back of my neck stand. Shouldn’t they identify themselves by now if the caller is a telemarketer or someone who called the wrong number?

I swallow the lump in my throat and wait a beat longer. I listen for anything that may give away the person on the other end of the line. I could recognize Ciro’s breathing pattern from another planet. Even though he’s fit, he always breathes heavily, like whatever he’s doing takes a lot of effort, and he needs to rip each word from the depths of his lungs.

When we were married, I hoped that his lungs would give out due to his excessive smoking. I wasn’t lucky enough for him to get sick. That bastard never caught a cold a day in his fucking life.

After another second, the caller hangs up.

I put the phone on the coffee table like it’s burnt me.

Then I look at sweet AJ again.

Could this be a coincidence? Or has the bastard gotten a hold of my new phone number? And if he has, what else can he find out?

Chills spill into my stomach; the uncomfortable sensation spreads through me. When I left, I did everything I could to erase who I’d been in the past. I used cash only, the amount I’d saved without Ciro’s knowledge.

I bought a fake ID, took buses, and changed my hairstyle from brown wavy hair down my back to medium-length, dirty blonde streaked hair. I slept in hotels, avoided being seen, and went unnoticed.

What would tip him my way? Once, days after I left, I noticed a tag in my purse. Then it hit me—even though I tossed my phone, the one I used when I was miserably married, the bastard must have snuck the tiny air tag in the purse I used when I worked at the café. It was sewn inside a small pocket I didn’t use—I only found out when I was removing some stuff. Made sense that a sick motherfucker like Ciro would have done it while we were married, in addition to tracking my phone location—he must have put it there on one of the few occasions I left my phone at home.

I immediately tossed the air tag as soon as I found it, followed by the purse. But by then, I was already in Chicago, looking for jobs.

If Ciro had known where I was, he would have chased me sooner, wouldn’t he?

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