Mafia Darling

17 | Alone (Ella)

I walk along the remains of a strip mall, hands in my pockets. Only the crappy businesses remain, and I step into a puddle, rippling the reflection of a neon sign for the nearby gentleman's club. Based on the men I've seen walk out of there with glammed-up women on their arms, it's more than just a gentleman's club. They go to find girls to bring to their cars, and based on the flirtatious behavior of the girls, it's part of this business.

I duck into the pawn shop next door. I seek out these areas specifically because I know they'll ask the least questions. I run my fingers through my hair to straighten it, unbutton the top buttons of my shirt, and smear some cheap lipstick on to make this look believable.

I place Marcine's ring on the counter. "I'd like to sell this."

The man at the counter, his nametag reads Pablo, picks it up. "What's it's history?"

I shrug. "A gentleman gave it to me," I say, gesturing with my head in the direction of the club. "In between sob stories about his failing relationship with his wife, of course."

Pablo barely reacts; I guess desperate men giving random gifts to sex workers isn't anything unusual.

"Give me a few minutes to inspect," he says, and he fetches jeweler's tools to inspect the little gem embedded on the silver band.

I nod and browse around the shop. There's too much in here to name. Vintage toys, old clocks, glass figurines. I pause by a glass case that's full of...

Dildos.

"Aren't these used?" I point out. There's a sign that says, don't worry, they've been cleaned!, but still. Using someone's old dildo. Ew.

Pablo shrugs. "You'd be surprised what people are into," he says. 

I shudder.

"I'll give you a thousand."

My jaw drops.

Pablo laughs. "The ring's in good condition, and this is a good sapphire. Well?"

"Hell yeah," I say. "It's more than those pervs pay me."

I feel a twinge of guilt as Pablo places the ring into a safe, and then he counts out a thousand dollars in a mix of hundreds and twenties. Marcine willingly handed it over, it was one of her many, many rings, but it feels so wrong.

I place the money into my backpack and head back out. I'm one state away from the Corleone's family estate. My plan is to go about two more states via buses and cheap motels until I hit a big city. Then I'll find a job as a waitress or a janitor or, hell, a maid, and I'll find a shelter to crash in until I can afford a room somewhere.

It's a shitty life trajectory, but let me be honest with myself: I was never going to amount to anything.

Someone whistles. A drunk man sways against his car, failing to light a cigarette.

"Where ya going, whore?" he calls out to me.

"Away from you, whore."

He starts cackling. It's an ugly sound accompanied by a lecherous smile as I walk away, but somehow, I find it in myself to chuckle. His behavior is so different from how kind and gentle Marco was for the few hours when we were on the errand run, for the few hours when everything was blissfully perfect. 

I'd give anything to relive those hours again and again and a hundred times over. To have a conversation with someone interested in me, who asked me for my favorite coffee flavor and my favorite color and my opinion on his mother's present.

If Niklas's men hadn't shown up -- if Marco hadn't pissed them off -- how would our date have ended? Where would I be right now?

I shake that thought from my mind. I have a bus to catch.