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And each morning, I wake up alone, the man already having slipped away into the dusk.
And each morning, I die just a little, knowing I can’t see his face in the sunlight, that one tiny glimpse of it being when I snuck out that first time.
I wish I had known. I would have taken a photo of it and captured it for the mornings.
I wish I had stayed that first morning, let him wake up with me and we could have seen where it would have taken us. Sometimes I wonder if I had chosen differently that first morning, if things would be different right now.
But today, I don’t wish that.
That’s because Dante didn’t make his way into my bed late last night, satisfying my need to feel that connection, to validate my feelings, to feed my own addiction.
I wake unrested, groggy, and panicked.
It’s strange, falling for a mafia man who can’t be seen with me, who has some kind of unknown plan he needs to see out before we can be together, before we can take over the world. Every moment that I’m not with him, I find myself craving him, and in the moments I’m not craving him, dying to be in his space, I’m worried for him.
He is not a doctor.
He is not a tattoo artist.
He isn’t even just a strip club owner.
He is next in line to be the Don of the Carluccio crime family, with people nipping at his heels to take the spot from him.
I roll over to my bedside table, looking for my burner phone and praying there’s a note.
But it’s not there.
Swiping the phone from the table, I tap the screen several times, checking my messages.
Nothing new.
I check the email he set up for me.
Nothing.
Then the panic begins.
Sitting in the bed, I force myself to take a deep breath, to let the air reach deep, deep down until I can feel it hit the bottom of my lungs, and slowly breath out.
If something had happened, I would know.
The club would call me.
Paulie would call me.
Marco would call me.
Someone in the house would knock on my door and tell me.
Right?
Right, I tell myself, because it’s the only thing keeping my anxiety out of worst-case scenarios. Walking over to the closet, I type out a text to him.
Me: Hey, everything okay?
I’m sliding a pair of jeans up my ass, still panicking as I reach for a long-sleeve Henley. My new uniform as assistant to Dante fucking Carluccio is not so much a uniform as a “wear whatever you want but cover your tits and ass because those are for me and me alone” rule. I don’t mind it because being covered up means I blend into the chaos. Men don’t have as much to look at, and thus, they don’t pay attention to me.
The last two weeks have been by far the easiest since starting at Jerzy Girls.
