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And in a way, I feel protected—not from something, but by something.
Myself.
Protected by me. And this man gave me the ability, the chance to take my safety and protection into my own hands for the first time in my life, to wield it like a strength rather than a curse.
And as I come down, I hear him in the headphones, my eyes still closed as the pleasure moves in waves through my body, pulsing.
“Holy fuck, you hit the heart,” he says, and I think for a second he means him. I’ve hit the heart of him.
But as my eyes open, as light filters in and I start to see, I look at the paper range guy moving gently with the wind and see it.
Dead center.
A hole in his heart.
Bullseye.
Thirty-Six
-Lilah-
A week later I’m in the girls' break room before the next shift swaps in, filling snacks and adding toiletries, when there's another presence behind me.
“Hey, sorry, just refilling—" I start, thinking it’s one of the girls, but instead, Paulie is standing against the wall, arms crossed on his chest.
He’s wearing an outfit similar to what Dante wears, the seeming uniform of the Carluccio men and their soldiers: a solid button-down shirt with the top few buttons undone, a thin gold chain with some kind of pendant hiding right beneath. The sleeves are rolled up, making the business slacks and elegant, shining shoes seem almost casual.
But there’s nothing casual about the way Paulie is staring at me.
There’s nothing casual about the way he’s in the girls’ dressing room, where no men are allowed.
“Paulie,” I say, trying to get my thoughts to work, my mind to work. “What are you doing in here?” I put the box filled with individually packaged snacks down on the counter and turn to face him.
I refuse to show fear.
Refuse to let him see past the stone walls of my fortress.
The fortress I was put in for my own safety is now the one I stay behind to hide from the world.
Stone walls are coated in diamonds created by pressure.
He looks at his nails, inspecting them as if he doesn’t get them buffed and trimmed weekly by a manicurist. But then his eyes move up, zeroing in on me, and there is venom there.
The man is sick. He is greedy and hungry, and I have to wonder if he knows that I’m somehow in the way of him getting what he wants.
“You’re spending a lot of time with my uncle,” he says, and then his eyes, those venomous, hate-filled eyes, roam my body in a way that makes my skin feel dirty.
In a way that makes me want to vomit.
“He’s really fucking up my plan,” he continues.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, every moment of training snapping into place. Moments of being the pretty, quiet daughter, the one who smiles and lets my sister or my father talk. The one who is to look gorgeous and shut up, not draw too much attention for fear of the world finding out who I really am.
What I really am.
“But you really shouldn’t be in here, Paulie. It’s the girls’ safe space, and Dante wants us to keep it that way.”
Mistake number one: mentioning his uncle.
