Page 1 of Maid For The Mafia Informant

Chapter OneSophie“You just aren’t what they’re looking for, Sophie. I don’t think I can be much clearer than that.” Cheryl sighs. She closes my prospective job applicant list and pushes it out in front of her like it’s something nasty.

I raise a brow, wanting to screw my face up, to make a judgment call on their inequality, but I also know it’s no use.

My employment agent, Cheryl has got me jobs in the past and when they say I’m ‘not suitable’ I know what they mean.

They mean they want someone thinner. Lighter, petite. All the words I can’t even think, let alone tell myself I might be one day.

I’m only going for private cleaner’s positions, what more do they want? I have experience. But it’s not enough. I know the look.

“Hey?” Cheryl says, calling after me as I look back before turning away, head bowed and shoulders slumped for the fifth time this week.

“We’ll find you something, Soph. I promise,” she adds, smiling like she means it. A strange smile on her face, like she wants to tell me more.

I walk out of the office, my head down, looking at the pavement, wondering how long it’ll be before I call it home.

If I don’t make rent this week, I’m out on the street. I’m already three weeks behind as it is.

I can’t go back home to Dad, I won’t. I’ll never hear the end of it if I do.

Being the only daughter of the local police superintendent isn’t easy, and not something I want to advertise, and sadly neither does my dad.

I feel my lip sting from chewing on it so hard lately, trying not to worry is always the best way for me to worry even more.

The last thing I need is to be reminded of the other bad news, but the newsstand down the street is plastered with the latest big story.

The story has been headline news all week, breaking my heart.

Benjamin Slade, controversial mob lawyer – missing presumed dead.

The glossy close up of his face on magazines, the sultry eyes that are more a question than an answer on the front of the newspapers.

I’ve never met the man, but have had nothing short of the biggest crush on him since I can remember.

He was that tough guy lawyer who always represented the mob kingpins in court. Always got them off and made a name for himself by winning class-action suits against the city for harassment of his clients and their families.

It was dark, murky stuff. And if it was anyone else doing the work it would make the public sick, make me sick.

But Ben Slade… The very thought of him, still makes me stop on the sidewalk and take a moment. Waiting to feel my legs again I relive every nighttime fantasy I’ve ever had of him.

He’s not dead. He can’t be.

I don’t believe-

“Ms. Moore?” A deep voice says from behind me, a sudden lurching of my heart has me expecting to see Ben Slade himself when I turn around.

But it’s not him.

Instead, it’s someone trying hard not to look like a cop, in a suit. My heart leaping against my ribs is replaced with a stomach churning realization I haven’t lodged taxes in a while.

He must be IRS.

“Come with me, please. I’ll explain all on the way,” The man says, stepping to one side and revealing a long, dark car with its back door open. Another guy in a suit and sunglasses holding a finger to his ear.

I open my mouth to say something, to protest, maybe even cry out for help, but there’s an edge of total authority in his voice.

“Let’s not make this difficult than it already is, Ms. Moore,” he adds, sighing with impatience, holding a hand toward the waiting car.

Nobody even notices anyway, and I’m sure if I did scream, nobody would care either.

Nobody ever notices me.

Not for the right reasons anyway.

The man’s short, balding, and a little heavy. I can relate to two out of three of his traits, and once he creases a frowning smile, and I see the butt of his gun and a badge as his jacket moves I guess he is a cop after all.

But what sort of cop?

I haven’t done anything wrong.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, straining another half-smile as he shuts the car door in my face, letting himself in the front passenger side.

I turn to look at the other guy in the back seat, skinny, young, in a suit. Same demeanor, but he looks out the window like he’s checking for something.

Or someone.

I notice a huge stack of papers and magazines next to him, all with the same face that makes me swoon every time I see it or even think about it.

Some have red ink circling words and phrases. Others just have that same handsome face, smiling back at me, making me bite my lip again.

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