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“Mr. Campano.” I walk to his desk, sinking down into one of the leather chairs. “I have your money.”
A faint smirk tilts the corners of his lips. “We’re back to that then, are we?”
“You were the one who pointed out that I work for you.” I open my purse, reaching for the roll of money. I pass it to him, my heart suddenly beating harder in my chest. I know it’s all there, every last dollar, but I have an irrational fear that he’ll accuse me of cheating him.
He’s never exploited you so far. He won’t start now.
A mafia boss—or, in this case, the brother of one—is the very last person I should trust. But something compels me to want to trust Lorenzo. It feels instinctual, and for the first time in my life, I doubt that gut instinct. It can’t possibly be right, not when it comes to this man.
He takes the roll of money, his gaze resting on me. “It’s all here?” he asks, but there’s something almost bored in his tone, as if he knows it is and is only asking the question as a matter of rote.
“It is.” He trusts me, too. It feels like a fragile bond between us, one that shouldn’t exist.
Lorenzo counts it all. He sits there, separating the money into stacks and making notes, while I twist my hands tighter and tighter together in my lap. A fine sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and my lungs feel shrunken. I want, suddenly, to be out of the office and into the air.
At last, Lorenzo takes a thin stack of bills, and nudges it towards me. “Your cut,” he says simply. “It will be better next time, obviously, but I had to take the advance out of this payment.”
“Of course.” I don’t count the money here, but just looking at it, I can see that I’ll have enough to pay for Niki’s therapy out of pocket for the next two weeks. With enough left over to buy some good groceries. Maybe even a month of Netflix for him. A flutter of happiness swoops through me—the feeling of being secure, just for a moment. It makes it worth the dread that follows it, when Lorenzo produces another bag of pills.
“The same as before.” He hands them to me. “Call me on the burner when you’re finished selling them, and you’re ready to give me the money.”
That’s it. Cold, blunt, matter-of-fact. Nothing in his face or bearing gives away whether or not he’s thinking of what happened at the club, of his hot, straining cock in my hand as I stroked him, of my body writhing against his as I came. I don’t see as much as a flicker of desire in his face.
I shouldn’t feel disappointed. I should feel relief. It would be one less complication. But instead, I feel my heart sinking as he raises an eyebrow.
“Is there anything else, Miss Ilenya?”
I didn’t realize how much I would miss him saying my name. The formal address sounds too stiff, all wrong on his tongue, but I just shake my head, reaching for my purse and standing up.
“I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
The money and the pills feel heavy in my purse as I catch the bus, and head to the bank. I’m carrying enough ecstasy on me to be arrested with intent to distribute if I were caught—and I am intending to distribute, so it would be fair—and the thought makes me feel vaguely ill. There’s no reason for me to be caught, I remind myself as I get onto the bus. There’s nothing suspicious about me, and there's no reason for a cop to stop me and look in my purse. But the anxiety remains, twisting my stomach as I take the bus to the bank, to deposit the money.
Thankfully, my bank is used to my depositing irregular—and sometimes large—amounts of cash, thanks to my job at the club. This amount shouldn’t raise any red flags. But anxiety isn’t rational, and I have to choke back the urge to get back on the bus and go home as I step off.
The sight of a police car behind the bus does nothing to ease the churning in my stomach.
Don’t look. I should keep walking past, without so much as a glance. That’s what an ordinary, innocent person would do. Right? Or would they glance, because they have nothing to worry about?
My teeth sink into my lower lip, and I can’t help but quickly glance at the car. It feels like a guilty look. And the nausea in my stomach only increases when I catch sight of the officer in the driver’s seat, and realize that I recognize him.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Every instinct in my body screams for me to walk faster. To run, even. The officer in the car is the man who came to the club, the one who vaguely threatened me, and if there was anyone who I would need to worry about searching me even if I’ve done nothing wrong, it’s him.
I force myself to walk at an even pace. A casual pace. The stroll of someone who has somewhere to be, but no worries about who might trail after them while they’re doing it. All the while, I can feel myself straining for the sound of footsteps behind me, catching up, or the sound of an approaching car.
There’s nothing beyond the usual sound of foot traffic downtown on an early Tuesday afternoon.
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I let it out. It comes out of me in a soft rush, and although I don’t dare look over my shoulder, I feel sure he’s not following me.
A coincidence, and nothing more.
The deposit at the bank goes smoothly, and when I check my phone, I have enough time for lunch before I need to be at the ballet studio. Lunch out, instead of something cheap and quick prepared at home, feels like an excessive luxury. My pulse quickens a little as I walk to a nearby cafe that I’ve passed before, a thrill of excitement rushing through me. It feels like an exquisitely special treat, to sit down at a table outside, and eat lunch out, by myself.
I get water and a chicken Caesar salad—I have to be careful of what I eat, even when I’m treating myself—and watch the passersby on the sidewalk. For a moment, I can feel myself relaxing. My shoulders loosen, and the tension eases out of me. I have time—thirty more minutes before I need to get on the bus. I have money, for now. In this brief span of time, everything feels as if it might be okay.
It won’t last, but it’s been so long since I’ve felt it that I let myself relax into the feeling, just for a second. Like coming up for air, when I’ve been drowning.
