“I’m here because my uncle owes the Di Santo’s. I’m paying off his debt.”
“How much?”
“A hundred thousand dollars.”
She sucks a breath in through her teeth, then releases it with a tight sigh.
“You want to know how long you’ll have to work here for?”
I bite my bottom lip and nod.
“Let’s see…” she taps her fingers against her chin. “A typical shift pays about a hundred bucks. You can probably earn up to four hundred bucks a night tips. So, say you made five hundred a night, one hundred thousand divided by five hundred…”
She lowers her hand, looking pleased with herself.
“Two hundred.”
I stare at her dumbly. “Two hundred what?”
“Nights,” she shrugs. “Shifts. Two hundred shifts.”
I swallow a sob before it can work its way out of my throat.
“But… not considering the one or two nights off each week I’ve been promised, that’s basically a year.”
“I guess.”
“But… I’m anurse. I’m not a good host, or waitress, or bar maid. I’m just not cut out for it.”
Her eyes widen in alarm. “You’re doing great! And IlDiavolo wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you’d be good at the job.”
“He didn’t exactly ‘hire’ me,” I mumble.
“Whatever you think he did or didn’t do, no one steps foot in this place unless they’re the best. You were lucky. Most of us have to go through rigorous interviews, auditions, you name it.”
She gives me an exaggerated wink then returns to the VIP suite leaving my brain to whir in her wake.
I don’t care what she says. I amnotlucky. I didn’t choose this job, and I’m only stuck here doing it because my uncle is a complete idiot.
I hate that I’m here because of him when I should be at home caring for my father—the entire reason I gave up a career doing what I loved.
Then again, I should have expected this. This is just how my life goes. Whenever something good is about to happen for me, even if that’s having the opportunity to spend time with my father while we can still make memories together, a metaphorical sledgehammer always drops into my plans and shatters them to pieces.
Growing up without a mom always made me feel… different. I was literally the only person I knew who’d never had that mother figure in their life. Dad did the best he could but he stayed resolutely single, so I had to teach myself a lot of the things that teenage girls needed to know. Thankfully, I had some sympathetic teachers, so when I got my first period, I at least knew what it was.
It happened late. In high school. I’d barely had time to master the art of using tampons when my uncle?—
The memory floods me with ice.
I was thirteen when he first put his hands on me.
Each time he did, he spread them further.
He took everything from me—my pride, my dignity, my safety. He never took it all the way, but he broke into my personal space and violated me repeatedly, overyears.
And so I blocked it all out. I barely remember anything.
I’ve read that therapy can help to bring some of it back, but I don’t want to go down that road. I don’t want to remember any of the things my uncle did to me or the life that fit around it, forever tainted by what I now know was abuse.
