Vengeance: DARK MAFIA ROMANCE

Nine

Natalia

I want to walk all the way home, just so that I don't owe Savio anything, but it's the middle of the night and I'm miles from my apartment. When I see the car still waiting out front, I hesitantly approach. The driver rolls down the window, but I still can't get a good look at his face. "Can you take me home, please?" I didn't bring a jacket, and my teeth are already chattering.

He smiles. "Of course, Miss Fiore. Savio has instructed me to take you anywhere you wish to go." By the time I hop in the back, he already has all the vents blowing out warm air. I consider giving him an address several blocks from my apartment, but I'm afraid my uncle's men might be skulking in the vicinity of the halal grocery, waiting to catch a glimpse of me. I give him the exact address and sit back, watching cars streak by.

What was Savio thinking with that bizarre contract? Had I misunderstood my audition that badly? Celeste didn't say anything about prostitution at the club. Theoretically, having sex with one guy repeatedly wouldn't be as bad as stripping for a hundred different guys every night, especially when I consider the promises of financial security. Even if Savio is a rough lover, what wouldn't I do for the money to start my own salon? Get out of this poor life I live?

I couldn't help but think that there had to be some kind of catch. No one looks at an awkward girl in ugly, cheap clothes who can't dance and goes "Man, I need a piece of that!" Especially not a man like Savio, who could probably have the richest, most beautiful women in the city with a snap of his fingers. I shake my head, dislodging the admittedly hot image of Savio bending some movie star over a desk. I'm not fucking selling my body to a stranger for a year in exchange for some cash. And I'm never trusting a member of the mafia. That conviction has been burned into my very blood and bone.

For the rest of the ride, I halfheartedly brainstorm more ways to fund my escape from Chicago. Dusting antiques isn't getting me anywhere, and I have to fight to keep my brain from returning to the contract sitting on the restaurant table.

"Miss?" The driver's voice interrupts my thoughts, concern lacing his words. "Do you know what's going on?" Blinking away my drowsiness, I look out the window and my heart stops. At least six police cars line the street in front of my apartment, lights flickering blue and red across the driver's blank face. People wearing jackets and bathrobes huddle together on the sidewalk as a slight rain starts to fall. Wind flaps the yards and yards of crime scene tape blocking all entrances to the building.

Before the driver can speak or move, I'm out of the car, sprinting past the onlookers and ducking under the crime scene tape. I see some policemen gathered on the other side of the driveway, but they don't notice my small figure in the dark as I creep past them and duck through the lobby door, which is propped open by a brick.

I see lights and hear voices by the elevator, so I dodge into the stairwell, which lies totally silent. Even though I'm dripping cold water and gasping for breath, I don't feel anything. The numbness increases as I climb the stairs to my floor, until I feel like I'm sleepwalking. After waiting for a couple of cops to walk to the elevator, I emerge into the quiet hall and creep toward my apartment. My hands shake uncontrollably as I confirm my worst fears: the crime scene is my apartment. Our apartment. Celeste...

I break into an unsteady run and lurch through the door. A strangled wail tears from my throat. There's blood everywhere, sprayed onto furniture, pooling on the floor. My roommate's favorite kitty mug lies shattered on the floor next to a body with curly, golden hair. "Celeste," I sob, sinking to my knees and crawling toward her. Blood soaks into the hem of my dress as my hands slither on the slippery floor. I stretch out a trembling hand to touch her. She's cold and still, empty. A pile of flesh.