Page 25 of Ruined By Protection
And I'm good at it. Too good, maybe.
I run my thumb around the rim of the glass, thinking about how I got here. From a Brooklyn kid with no education other than street-smarts to Damiano Feretti's go-to problem solver. The climb wasn't pretty but it was effective.
With Alessio—Damiano's right-hand man—taking personal time, I've been picking up the slack. Usually I don't mind. I like being useful, being needed. But babysitting some civilian? That's not exactly in my job description.
I drain my glass and pour another. Three fingers this time.
The thing about working for the mafia—the thing no one tells you—is that it's mostly business. Boring, everyday business. Moving money. Making deals. Keeping records that will never see the light of day. It's meetings and phone calls and spreadsheets.
Until it's not.
Until it's a gun in your hand or blood on your shoes or a body that needs to disappear before sunrise.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Below me the city moves on, oblivious. People going home to families. People who don't have to worry about whether tomorrow's job involves a gun or a handshake.
The compass tattoo on my forearm catches my eye—a reminder to stay true to my course, to remember what matters. Family. Loyalty. Finding my way through the darkness.
Fuck, I'm getting philosophical. Must be the scotch.
I knock back the rest of my drink and set the glass down harder than necessary. The sound echoes in the empty apartment.
It's not that I resent Alessio. The man's earned a break. He's Damiano's shadow, always on call, always in the middle of whatever shit is going down. But his absence means everyone else shifts up a rung and now suddenly I'm handling things that would normally be his problem.
Like whatever this airport situation is tomorrow.
Hazel
I keep my sunglasses on even though we're inside the plane. They hide the tears that won't stop falling, no matter how many times I wipe them away. Not that anyone's looking. The businessman beside me is too absorbed in his laptop to notice the woman quietly falling apart in seat 14B.
Two years of marriage. Two years of slowly disappearing inside my own home.
I didn't think it would come to this—running away with nothing but a hastily packed carry-on and the cash I'd been secretly stashing in my tampon box for months. The one place Elliott would never look.
The flight attendant passes along the aisle, her smile faltering when she catches sight of me. I turn to the window, pretending to be fascinated by clouds. I don't need her concern or questions. I've had enough of both to last a lifetime.
"Would you like something to drink?" she asks.
"Water, please," I murmur, my voice still raw from crying in the airport bathroom.
She hands me a plastic cup, her eyes lingering a moment too long on my face. I wonder if she can see past the makeup, the glasses, past the designer clothes that don't belong to the frightened girl wearing them.
I take a sip and close my eyes, remembering last night's phone call.
"Evelyn?" My voice trembled as I locked myself in the guest bathroom, the only room without cameras. "I need to run."
There was a pause then my cousin's voice, sharp with concern. "From Elliott?"
Just her understanding—the fact that she didn't need me to explain—broke something in me. A single tear slides down my cheek at the memory.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Come to New York," she said immediately. "I'll meet you at the airport. Just tell me when."
No questions about why. No lecture about trying to work things out. Just immediate, unconditional help.
"I don't want to drag you into this," I'd said, guilt already creeping in. "He has connections. Money."
"So do I," Evelyn replied with steel in her voice. "And I have friends who can help. Powerful friends."
