Corrupting Lily

Chapter 5

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Lily

Leaning closer toward the small mirror hanging from the tiles in my tiny bathroom, I take in the prominent dark marks under my eyes—the result of a restless night's sleep. Shadows haunted my dreams with silver-grey eyes swimming in their depths, calling me in that voice I would know from a thousand others. The feeling of fear and pleasure had me skirting the edges, my hand brushing the shadow only to come back painted in red. The color of passion. The color of death. If that wasn't a huge red flag to stay away from Dominico Sante, then I don't know what is.

Tossing the towel in the hamper next to the basin, I head out of the bathroom, and a couple of steps take me to the small wardrobe next to my single bed. Anything bigger in this apartment would eat up floor space. It took me a while to get used to it. Coming from a massive penthouse to this was a jarring experience. This place is a shoe box in comparison. But the rent was cheap, and freedom made up for what I lacked in other areas.

A few days after moving here, I found Vee's, a second-hand store a block down the road—a lifesaver, with all the furnishings in this room coming from there. The elderly woman who owned it knew me well and even gifted me some plants to make the place feel more homely.

The worn wooden closet I am standing in front of would send Camille running. There are three T-shirts, two pairs of worn jeans, two button-up jerseys, and a spare black shirt and skirt for work hanging pitifully in the space. The casual pieces are all two sizes too big. But beggars can't be choosers. A small plastic holder attached to the side contains several pairs of underwear and two bras. While Basilio had paid for my work clothes, the others I purchased with my own money from the thrift clothing section of Vee's. I spent so much time at work that there was no need for more casual clothing than I had. On my off days, I stayed in my apartment reading books and lounging in one of my two pairs of pajamas pushed under my pillows.

Pulling the light blue T-shirt and less-worn-looking jeans from their hangers, I toss them on the bed. Mismatched underwear follows as I quickly get dressed, the anxiety building in my stomach as I sit on the bed and fish out some plasters from the small vanity bag I have stashed under my bed.

After rushing out of the club last night, I ran the two blocks home, not caring until I reached the safety of my apartment that I had been running in my heels. It cost me huge blisters on both feet at the back and on the top, where the heel edge had chafed into the skin. Plastering them up, I pull on some socks and the faded grey Converse sneakers I scored from the lost and found at the club—strange shoes to be left there, considering the type of customers. Nonetheless, after a month of no one collecting them, I was asked to throw them in the trash. I became the bin when I found they were my size. The sole was wearing away, though, and I feared a couple more uses would finally render them to their original destination.

Usually, I would be in work clothes right now, but that changed this morning. Just after eight, I received a message from Basilio stating that I would work on the club's books at one of Dominico's offices. Someone would be at my place at ten to collect me. When I tried calling him from the second-hand cellphone he gave me, there was no answer. A text minutes later revealed that he was in a meeting and could not take my call.

I couldn't tell from the messages if he was angry with me. I had no idea what happened last night after I left. Perhaps Dominico recognized me, but I probably wouldn't be working for Basilio anymore if that was the case. I would be handed over to him. A shudder crawls through my body at the thought. I'd rather be dead, I think, the thought not crossing my mind for the first time.