Page 21 of Carnal

Me:I truly am sorry. Can we please talk about this tomorrow?

I wait for a response, but it never comes. All night, I toss and turn, unable to stop my mind from spinning. When morning comes, I check my messages and a new panic ignites.

Dante:I need you to come to the house as soon as possible.

My stomach drops like I'm on the first hill of a roller coaster. I jump out of bed and pace.

Does he know?

I text him back.

Me:What's going on?

Dante:We need to discuss last night.

I put my hand over my mouth, closing my eyes.

Did Tristano tell him what happened even though he agreed not to?

Did Dante somehow figure it out on his own?

Unlike my normal behavior, I choose cowardice.

Me:Can I call you and we can talk over the phone?

Dante:No. We need to speak in person.

"Shit!" I exclaim, the air in my lungs turning stale. If I lose my job, I'll be financially fine. But I love working for Dante and the rest of the Marinos. And I've spent my entire career trying to become irreplaceable.

Have I fooled myself? Am I not as valuable to Dante as I thought?

It's not my nature to worry about things until I have concrete facts. Right now, I have zero ability to not freak out. I pace my room several times, attempting to calm down. My phone vibrates.

Dante:Bridget and I have a meeting with the wedding planner later this morning. When can you get here?

I swallow the lump in my throat and reply.

Me:Give me a half hour to get ready, and I'll be on my way.

Dante:See you then.

My panic builds while getting ready. I text my driver and am soon sitting in the back of the SUV, attempting to think of things to say to Dante to save my job.

Part of me wonders if I can deny what happened between Tristano and me and somehow lie my way out of the situation. Yet, I know it's impossible. Dante isn't stupid. It's one of the reasons I love working with him. Like the rest of the Marinos, he's one of the sharpest men I know.

All the worrying has me feeling super off-balance. I need to buy some more time and pull myself together. I instruct my driver, "Get off at this exit."

"Is there another stop?" he asks.

"No," I admit.

"It's two exits too soon," he states, as if I haven't been at the Marino compound hundreds of times.

"I know. Get off this exit," I repeat.

"You're the boss," he says, then veers onto the ramp.

For the rest of the ride, I stare out the window, but nothing registers. The gates come into view, and my stomach somersaults. My driver pulls in front of the main entrance, and I wait for him to open my door.

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