Page 9 of Owned By the Italian Mafia Don

The hallway is carpeted so my heels don’t make noise. I peek my head into his room and notice he is already asleep on his bed, arm tossed over his head, and hushed snores coming from his parted mouth. Surveying the room, my gaze lands on the gem sitting on top of his dresser as if it isn’t worth a ton of money, but something he found on the side of the road instead.

I tiptoe by his bed, snagging it from the dresser. I take a moment to look at it and realize that, whatever it is, it’s an uncut gem. It’s round but a few parts of it are rough and jaded. I slip it in my purse and there’s a beat where I feel horrible about going to the club behind his back.

But I need to know just how deep my brother is in with the Bianchi crime family. Do we need to move? I want to confront the man who hurt him anyway.

I leave, snagging my car keys from the hook.

The door creaks as I open it, echoing down the hall. It’s hard to believe that after all the hard work, blood, sweat, and tears in this life, we somehow still live in an apartment that is barely standing on its foundation. Water drips from the ceiling and down the drywall, old stains are left in the leak’s path, the lights flicker when people walk upstairs, and there’s a moldy, musky smell always lingering in the air.

I’m tired of living like this.

Which in turn makes me feel bad because all I do lately is complain, but I guess that’s what happens when the soul is tired. Everything around me exhausts me and I’m tired of acting like it will all be okay.

I open my purse to double-check that my pink knife is still sitting at the bottom.

Bingo.

I carry it with me everywhere I go. Being a single woman isn’t easy and I’ll be damned if I let a man touch me without getting sliced and diced first.

“Rosie,” Ms. Henderson, the lovely elderly woman who lives next door catches me just as I begin down the steps. “You look like a hooker,” she blurts. “Good for you.”

I chuckle, my cheeks hurting from how hard I’m smiling. “Thank you, Ms. Henderson. I’m going out. I think I deserve it.”

“You do, honey. Come back with a hot piece. I live through you now.”

“Will do.” I wave at her before pushing the door open into the heat of the night.

Humidity wraps around my skin like a heavy cloak and sweat threatens to bead across my neck as I walk swiftly to the car. My heels click against the pavement, and I turn a few heads while people walk by me, but I don’t care about them.

I have one goal in mind and it’s by far one of the most reckless things I’ve ever done in my life. I’m known as a thinker, someone who always has a plan, but I’m tired of planning. I’m tired of being the one who always has their head on their shoulders. My planning, my thinking, clearly has gotten me nowhere in life. I’m working a dead-end job trying to save a family business that can’t be saved. I don’t know why I bother trying. Maybe my issue is that I think too much, I plan too much, and I hope too much.

My brother is my everything. He’s young and he isn’t trapped like I am. I want him to have a way out, and desperate people do desperate things, so that’s exactly what I’m doing tonight.

Find the guy that hurt my brother and maybe I can make sure my brother’s life is safe.

I get into the old Buick that’s been in the family way too long and somehow it still runs. It’s rusted and loud. The belt screeches when I turn the engine and I wince. The loud sound eventually fades as I drive out of the parking lot.

The drive across town is quick since I’m lost in my head, and nerves decide to get the best of me. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I pass the parking lot to the club, knowing I can’t park this piece of crap car in the same place filled with Rolls Royces and Lamborghinis.

How the hell did my brother get into this place?

I park in an abandoned lot a block away and take a deep breath, clutching the wheel as tightly as possible. Am I really going to walk into the lion’s den? What if I do this and they know? What if I don’t make it out alive?

“You’re being dramatic,” I tell myself, releasing the wheel. “I’m a single woman going in there for a good time. Nothing more.” I remind myself of the plan. I have to stick to the plan. Opening my purse, the gem stares at me as I grab my lip gloss to touch it up.

I close my purse quickly, not wanting to be reminded of what I’m about to do. Climbing out of my car, I hold my chin high and strut down the sidewalk. I’ve always been told I have a resting bitch face, so I let it rest, making sure everyone who sees me knows I’m not in the mood to fuck around.

I’m already losing my damn courage when my feet begin to hurt from these stupid heels. I remember why I don’t wear them anymore. They are terrible. I don’t know why women choose to do this to themselves.

When I get to the front of the building, I swallow the pain and cover it up by pushing through it. The club is classy, finished with a matte black, with a large wooden door that three people can fit through. A purple light lines the bushes out front, and a red rope keeps the line in check, so I step in and wait my turn. I think about the name Amor and laugh.

They could have been more creative in naming the place, but what do I know? I only work at a very successful failing general store named O’Connor’s.

The line doesn’t move for what seems like hours, but a man dressed in a suit that’s probably more expensive than what I could ever dream of making stops at my side. His eyes roam me up and down and I have to swallow the urge to roll my eyes.

I’m here to learn information and I can’t do that if I let my attitude loose.

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