Page 2 of Owned by the Italian Mafia Boss
I nod but don’t say anything else. Instead, I sink onto the edge of the other bed. I should probably sleep too, but I know I won’t. I’m exhausted, but after everything that’s happened over the past twenty-four hours, I’m too wired to sleep. After a while, the crow’s feet spreading from the corners of Dad’s eyes deepen as he sleeps. His silver hair is thin, and he has a round belly from eating junk food all the time at the shop. He isn’t doing well.
But I’m going to change that.
I’m going to talk to Carmine Milazzo myself. I’ll see if there is anything I can do to make things right. There aren’t many horrors in this life that scare me. I believe in facing an issue head-on, swallowing my fear even if it turns my stomach sour.
I snag my bag from the end of the bed and head to the bathroom. I ease the door shut, so I don’t wake Dad. When I look in the mirror, the events from last night have caused circles under my eyes and my skin to be pale.
To see a man like Carmine, a woman has to look the part.
I toss my long black hair in a high ponytail, showing the elegant curves of my neck. While I stare at my reflection, I think of the dreams I wanted for myself. I wanted to travel, or study abroad. Now, none of that can happen. Tears redden the whites of my eyes, and I stare at the harsh light in the bathroom to dry them.
Deep breaths in and out.
I do that until I don’t feel like I’m about to completely lose control, and control is the only thing I have going for me right now.
“You can do this. He’s just another man, and men always want something,” I say to my reflection, my green eyes bright against my fair skin. Grabbing my blush from the bag, I pinken my cheeks and apply a generous amount of mascara. My lashes are long naturally, but the mascara darkens them and makes them thicker.
After I undress, I throw on a simple black dress and slip on the black flats that I happened to be wearing when I ran from my childhood home last night.
“That will have to do,” I say to myself, rubbing my hands down my body to smooth out the wrinkles of my dress.
I peek out the door and hear Dad snoring, telling me that not even a bomb could wake him. I tiptoe in front of the bed, grab my purse from the table, and the floorboards creak under me. I stop, side-eyeing him. He snores louder, then snorts, rubbing his nose before flipping to his side.
I love that man, but no wonder mom could never sleep well.
I ease the door open, only cracking it wide enough to wiggle my body through. When the air hit me, I wrinkle my nose. It smells of hot trash and cigarettes.
How is this my life?
Did we live in luxury? No. We had a comfortable lower middle-class life. We never went without. Money was always tight, but we made it work.
At least, I thought we made it work.
And now we are hiding in a motel with roaches crawling up the beams; the paint is chipping away from the cement siding.
Shoulders back, chin high, I march into the parking lot, the gravel digging into the thin soles of my shoes. Looking left and right, I see only cars across the street at a junkyard. Digging out my phone, I order an Uber and then remember, I have no idea where Carmine Milazzo lives.
Someone has to know.
I wait outside the motel for my ride, biting on my fingernails, and think about what I’m going to say to him. What am I going to offer? Could I work for him in exchange for my father’s debt?
A light blue Nissan rolls to a stop, its tires crunching, as the Uber driver slams on the brakes to avoid the pot of dead flowers but hits it anyway. The vase cracks, and the soil spills free.
He rolls the window down to ask, “Delilah?”
“That’s me.” I open the back door and slide in; it smells much better in this car than out there.
“Where to? You didn’t provide an address.”
“Carmine Milazzo’s house please.”
He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, and his eyes widen in the rearview mirror before he spins around to look at me. “Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking going there, but I’m not taking you to that man’s house. You won’t be walking out of it.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“People don’ttalkto Carmine Milazzo.”
I lean forward and tilt my head. “Well, I’m going to, so that’s where I need to go.”
