Page 7 of Corrupting Lily

Run, my little flower, for tomorrow brings a new day.

Chapter 5

Lily

Leaning closer to the small mirror hanging on the tiles in my tiny bathroom, I examine the prominent dark marks under my eyes—the result of a restless night’s sleep. Shadows haunted my dreams with silver-grey eyes swimming in their depths, calling to me in that voice I would recognize from a thousand others. The feeling of fear and pleasure had me skirting the edges, my hand brushing the shadow only to return stained in red. The color of passion. The color of death. If that wasn’t a huge red flag to stay away from Dominico Sante, then I don’t know what is.

Tossing the towel into the hamper next to the basin, I head out of the bathroom, and a few steps take me to the small wardrobe beside my single bed. Anything larger in this apartment would consume floor space. It took me some time to adjust. Coming from a massive penthouse, this was a jarring experience. This place is a shoebox by comparison. However, the rent was cheap and paid in cash, so I couldn’t complain. Moreover, freedom compensated forwhat I lacked in other areas.

A few days after moving here, I discovered Vee’s, a second-hand store just a block down the road—a lifesaver, as all the furnishings in this room came from there. It had been so long since I was allowed to make my own decisions about what I wanted to buy that the first time I stood at the checkout counter, I nearly had a panic attack. That was probably the start of my friendship with the elderly woman who owned the shop. A cup of mint tea and some biscuits later, that was all it took. She knew me well now and even gifted me some plants to make the place feel more homely.

The worn wooden closet I stand in front of would send Camille running. Inside, there are three T-shirts, two pairs of worn jeans, two button-up jerseys, and a spare black shirt and skirt for work hanging pitifully in the space. The casual pieces are all two sizes too big. But beggars can’t be choosers. A small plastic holder attached to the side contains several pairs of underwear and two bras. While Basilio paid for my work clothes, I purchased the others with my own money from the thrift clothing section of Vee’s. I spent so much time at work that I had no need for anything more casual than what I already had. On my off days, I stayed in my apartment reading books and lounging in one of my two pairs of pajamas pushed under my pillows.

Pulling the light blue T-shirt and less-worn-looking jeans from their hangers, I toss them onto the bed. Mismatched underwear follows as I quickly get dressed, anxiety churning in my stomach while I sit on the bed and dig out some plasters from the small vanity bag tucked under my bed.

After rushing out of the club last night, I ran the two blocks home, not caring until I reached the safety of my apartment that I had been running in my heels. It cost me huge blisters on both feet, particularly at the back and on top, where the heel edge had chafed into the skin.Thanks to Mr. Star-Of-My-Fantasies. It was surprising how similar fear and excitement were. I plaster them up, then pull on some socks and the faded grey Converse sneakers I scored from the lost and found at the club—strange shoes to be left there, considering the type of customers. Nonetheless, after a month of no one collecting them, I was instructed to throw them away. I became the bin when I found they were my size. The sole was wearing away, though, and I feared a couple more uses would finally render them to their original destination.

Usually, I would be in work clothes right now, but that changed this morning. Just after eight, I received a message from Basilio stating that I would work on the club’s books at one of Dominico’s offices. Someone would be at my place at ten to collect me. When I tried calling him on the cell phone he gave me, there was no answer. A text minutes later revealed that he was in a meeting and could not take my call.

I couldn’t tell from the messages whether he was angry with me. I have no idea what happened after I left last night. Perhaps Dominico recognized me, but I probably wouldn’t be working for Basilio anymore if that were the case. I would be handed over tohim. A shudder crawls through my body at the thought. I’d rather be dead, I think, a notion that has crossed my mind before.

Shoving that thought aside, my mind goes back to Dominico. Part of me hopes I never see him again. He is far too intimidating, and my body has a mind of its own when he's near. My sleepless night gave me plenty of time to relive the moments from the evening, and analyzing my reaction to him was confusing. I’d seen the fear on Camille's face, and even Basilio's once, when in this man’s presence. That feeling was missing in my body, making me wonder how broken I was. While he did make me anxious, especially when those grey eyes lingered for longer than I deemed appropriate, other feelings emerged that I hadnot felt in a very long time. I was well aware of how disturbing the situation causing these feelings was. Unhealthy. Unnatural.

Yet even now, thinking of his hand gripping my neck causes a throbbing between my legs that cannot be ignored. However, based on his physique, I know that he controlled the grip on my neck, and it was such a turn-on. It had been firm but not life-threatening. I didn’t doubt for a second that he could snap my neck if he wished; it just didn’t seem like he would. Delusion, perhaps, but with him, I felt safe, for lack of a better word, and with no recent reference to guide me in understanding the truth of my own feelings. And the way he leaned in, bringing with him the scent of cigar smoke, whiskey, and spicy aftershave, had me mirroring his motion. The desire to rub myself against him like a cat rolling itself in catnip crossed my mind, just so that the scent could come home with me.

A hard knock on my door makes me jump, pulling me from my lust-filled daze. My cheeks flush red as if someone has caught me doing something naughty. I smooth my hands over my black wig and throw on a blue button-up jersey, composing myself as best as I can before opening the door.

My breath hitches; the looming figure in the doorway is not one I was expecting. Yet, considering how much he has been on my mind, perhaps I have conjured him up. Called him to me. My eyes trail up the broad chest, taking in the expensive tailored suit, a crisp white shirt missing a tie, and an open top button revealing black ink. Geezus, the one-top-button-open scenario strikes again, and instantly, I am moist. Knowing my eyes should go higher, they don’t. Instead, they are fixated on the intricate tattoo that covers all exposed skin, from the open button up to the firm jaw, which appears to be twitching.

The tattoo is very dark, featuring skulls and smoke that dominate most of the design. A small symbol is also tucked away just to the left ofhis Adam’s apple, bobbing as he swallows. On the other side, there is cursive writing in a language I don’t understand. I stand on my tiptoes, leaning forward in an attempt to get a closer look, but I'm halted by a rough clearing of his throat. The blush from earlier intensifies as I realize what I am doing, and I quickly drop back to my heels as I finally look up, his grey eyes from last night even more intense in the light of day.

He is expressionless. Unreadable. Why is he even here? I thought I would be working with his accountant or someone else, not him directly. The idea hadn’t even occurred to me. I peer behind him, noticing two burly-looking men blocking the hallway.

He steps forward, compelling me to take a few steps back, the motion causing his scent to envelop me. It’s even more intense than last night, not softened by the smoke that usually fills the air at the club.

“So,il mio fiorellino, this is where you live,” he greets, the gravelly texture of his voice sending a shiver down my spine. For Pete's sake, this is ridiculous. I smother my exasperation and plaster on a smile.

“Yes,” I say proudly, my hand sweeping across my apartment.

“Would you like some coffee?” I offer, stepping toward my small kitchenette. It was an old habit, playing host. One I should grow out of. I don't know this man, and having him in my space the way he impacts me is probably not a good idea. But the offer is out and I cannot rescind. My smile falters as I wait for an answer.

He doesn’t say anything, his head tilting slightly as he looks at me. I wonder if it is a tactic to intimidate me? Maintaining eye contact, I wait, unsure of what is happening behind that deadpan expression and wishing somehow that I knew. I imagine few would be privy to it, and I wish I were part of the minority.

“Sure,” he finally drawls, turning around and nodding to his menbefore shutting the door behind him.

“You’re my first guest,” I inform him, trying to ease the tension with small talk. My eyes widen as I notice his gaze scanning the extent of my apartment, and I realize my wardrobe doors are open. While I was okay with my situation, I didn’t want others pitying me, which was inevitably what happened when they were rich. Hastily, I turn around and shut the doors with a loud thud that echoes through the room.

He doesn’t say anything when I turn around, my cheeks ablaze. I point to the small round table with two chairs just off to the side of my kitchenette before filling and switching on the kettle.

I smile nervously as he sits down, the chair creaking under his weight while I silently pray that it will hold. His eyes bore into my back and side, knots forming in my stomach from his scrutiny of me. What does he see?

“How do you take your coffee?” I finally ask once the kettle has boiled, my brown eyes now meeting grey ones.

“Black, like the shadows beneath your eyes. Did you not sleep?” His voice is stern as my fingers brush the traitors alluding to my lack of sleep, surprised, quite frankly, that he has noticed.

“Not much,” I laugh, once again blushing as I remember the very reason for my lack of sleep is sitting in front of me.

Coffees in hand, I set his before him as I sit down. The small size of my table means we are close together, and the touch of my knee against his leg is inevitable. While I anticipate this, the jolt through my system is still surprising. I feel like a schoolgirl sitting near her crush, one that is unattainable and capable of destroying me with a mere look. Which is what his eyes do. They pick me apart, making me feel bare and raw. When his gaze moves to my wig, I will myself not to react. This man would notice and use it.

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