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The blanket’s wrapped around his legs, tangled like our limbs were when we fell into the bed, exhausted and sated. He looks almost boyish when he sleeps, but I know better. I know the way those eyes of his grew heated and intense, how his hands wrapped around my ankles like shackles and spread my legs for him. I let myself go for one night… and I have no regrets.
No regrets.
God, what a night. What a night. No baggage, no niceties, no need for formalities. We fast-forwarded straight to the good part, and it was amazing.
But I have to go.
I never should’ve spent the night.
Duty calls.
I have a vague feeling of dread that even though last night was perfect, literally perfect in every way, I’m going to regret what I did.
I tell myself it’s only because I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve lived for so long obeying the law and seeking justice, defying it all feels dangerous.
But I won’t live in regret. No. I don’t regret that night of bliss. Now that I know I could enjoy what I did, my life—my sex life, anyway—will never be the same. Never.
I glance around the room. I’ve already mapped out the layout. To the right there’s a fire escape which I’d only use in an emergency, but this room’s connected to a second. It will be easier and quieter for me to open the adjacent door, since the room next to us is vacant. If he hears me, I can hide quietly in the adjacent room while he looks for me… then casually slip out.
But the warmth of the bed and the charisma of the man who fucked me draw me like a Siren to my death. I roll over on my side and watch him. Just stare at him while he sleeps. His breathing’s slow and unencumbered, and as I watch, he stretches and yawns, then rolls slightly to the side so his arm isn’t tucked under the pillow anymore.
I squint in the pre-dawn darkness, trying to get a closer look at the swirl of ink on his forearm. The ink across his back is bold and defiant—a skull and crossbones, a pirate ship, an angry-looking cobra. They only make him look badass and a little carefree. But the tat on his arm looks… different. Faded, as if he’s had it for a very long time. Colored, but even the red has begun to fade with time. I squint my eyes and look closer. I was too sex-hazed to notice what it was last night.
A rose.
An alarm bell clangs in my chest so quickly, I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s a symbol, and one I know well. A catalog of information sorts itself in my brain on repeat, the curse of the ordered, obsessive mind.
Is he…
No. No, he can’t be. If he really were a Rossi, he wouldn’t have picked me up so casually. They’re deliberate with their actions and he wouldn’t…
Would he?
My research says they keep things close to the vest, that they don’t take on casual dates unless they intend on marrying them. The heart of the Rossi family code demands that they marry quickly to ascend in rank, and that they produce children. I’ve long since scoffed at their patriarchal, old-fashioned ways, but the Rossi family was only one of the many mob families I’ve looked into.
Surely a man can have a rose tattoo on his arm without it meaning he’s mafia… can’t he? It’s not like it’s the most obscure ink you could get. And yet…
He packed a weapon. He had a wad of cash in his wallet as thick as my arm. He drove a luxury car that had obviously been raced, and when he came here, he was well-known and recognized.
I’ve been a fool.
Such a fool.
The one night I give myself permission to color outside the lines, and I make a grave mistake that could end my career or… worse. I close my eyes against the heat of emotion. Regret, that this night of bliss was stolen and fleeting. Shame, that a woman of my status allowed herself to be whored out for casual sex despite my strongest instincts not to be stupid and juvenile. But more than anything, sadness that my fantasy night was just that—a figment of my imagination with no real grounding here on earth.
I should’ve known better.
I should’ve known.
And now the only choice before me is a bleak one: leave without saying good-bye. Go back to my work. Pretend I never saw him and more importantly, that he never saw me.
I move incrementally, slowly, so as not to wake him, but thankfully he had enough cocktails he’s still in a deep, heavy sleep. I smile softly to myself. He’s as drunk on sex as I am. Sigh.
Figures he doesn’t do anything in half measures, including sleep. He fucks hard, and he sleeps hard.
