Raised by the Mafia

32. Through the Dark (Mila)

Widowhood is simpler.

It takes every rotten day of my rotten life up to this new low, but my spine doesn't stiffen. Gutted, I focus on one thing, one thing only—staying supple in Luca's perfect arms until he's fast asleep.

Luca's a soft man, but I should have remembered that he's a son, a grandson and a great-grandson of the mafia. For all I know, his entire pedigree is killers. It gives him the instinctual knowledge when to snuff out a life for the lowest price.

Killing Ryan in the States? That's not trivial, particularly when Luca cared about not pissing me off. But here, in the lawless mountains, with me in his bed? If anyone would point at a culprit, they would point at Ryan himself. Why travel to a place on the do-not-travel advisory and seek adventures when your rump is too skinny to land safely?

If Luca even wanted a confirmation that I'm not pissed with him, then... no shit, Sherlock. I've outsmarted myself.

Checkmate.

No matter how loudly I scream in my mind to fucking relax or I'll wake Luca, the shakes convulse my body. I whimper, breaking out of his heavy limbs to slip to the floor. There, I bite my lips, rocking on the bear rug's pungent bristles... a prelude to how it might feel if Ryan dies because of my pig-headed stupidity. I dry-heave, but I need to vomit. How I want to vomit!

Luckily, ending abstinence with this much vigor puts Luca deep under Morpheus' spell. While I creep to the bathroom on my hands and knees, naked, he snores. Gratitude washes over me. Thank God my ex is a heavy sleeper! I don't need him right now. I don't know what I need, but it's not him.

The mirrors look down at me, honest to a fault in reflecting a crawling naked form. They who crawl have no power, no will, no say in things... I squeeze my eyes shut and crawl. The floor is hard beneath my knees where I run out of rugs.

My shoulder bumps the doorframe. Open your eyes, girl.

The bathroom is as freshly renovated as the rest of the villa, so the tile is gleaming, the sink and the toilet are gleaming, another mirror is gleaming. God forbid we run out of mirrors! Yet, there is not a towel in sight, nor a discarded garment, nor even a sheepskin to act as a floor mat.

I don't care... I stick my head almost all the way down the gleaming toilette bowl and, finally, vomit. If only my soul could come out with the contents of my stomach. If I still have the soul. Using the counter to pull myself up, I trickle the water into my shaking palms, then throw it in my face.

Cold, sweet water mixes with hot, salty tears. No, it's just water that runs down my face. I can't be crying. I can't afford to be crying, even with anger at being upstaged at every turn. I press whatever is leaking down my cheeks with the outside of my hands. Okay, I'm crying. Whatever. At least my legs are holding me upright, despite jellified knees. Thousands of needles prickle my calves as I force myself to let go of the sink and the counter, putting all my weight on my feet. The circulation returns, the shock recedes.

I wash my face. I wash everything, way past caring if water splashes on the shiny floor tiles. Luca snores...

I hobble back into the bedroom, scavenging for something to dry myself with, then my shirt. It's cotton versus the spray of the goosebumps. It's panties versus shame.

Then it's time for Luca's clothes. I pat down what I didn't use as a towel and find nothing useful, save for an old-fashioned car key. Yes, a fucking car key, the one you actually stick into the lock and ignition to turn a car on manually. No knife, no gun, not even a chewing gum. So all I have are the car keys and handcuffs... Typical. With a frustrated sigh I drop on my rump and sit on the floor, crumpling Luca's pants in my hands.