Page 13 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

The elevator doors open. The hostess gestures me inside with a gentle hand on my elbow. Both guards step in with me.

Nobody speaks on the ride down. The classical music plays. I stare at my boots.

Great night.

The second the doors open, the guards walk me to the revolving doors.

Guard Number One clamps a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze that tells me I better not try anything. And in case I didn’t get the message, the dry tone in his next words makes sure I understand. “Have a good evening, miss.”

I give a two-finger salute from the corner of my right temple. “Yeah. It’ll be peachy. Thanks.” I pack up my sarcasm and start pounding pavement. I take a step out of the building before I turn back.

"Actually, wait." My face is still burning but I hold out the red envelope. "Can one of you please put this in the wish box? Please. That's all I'm asking."

The hostess steps forward before either guard can respond. She takes the envelope from my hand with both of hers, holding it carefully, and the smile she gives me is warm and real.

"I'll make sure it gets placed in the box personally. You have my word."

I take in her kind expression and believe her. I don't know why, but I do.

"Thank you."

She nods once, steady and sure, the envelope pressed against her chest. The guards watch me leave. The Chicago night rushes in cold and sharp against my burning cheeks.

Dread sinks in and my palms become sweaty as I think over my options. I head back to the motel and keep calling my sister. My stomach rumbles with hunger and now that I have nothing else to focus on, the pains of not eating storm the front of my mind.

I'm probably going to die tonight. My mother raised us to be careful about the people we let into our lives. Her soul mate broke her. He told her she was his world and then walked out when he couldn’t take the stress and strain of raising a family.

But did I listen? No. I saw beautiful blue eyes, fell in lust with a Russian accent and now I’m running for my life.

Fucking men and accents. Why did they have to be so damn irresistible?

My stomach quivers with hunger again. I splay my hand over my midriff but it does nothing to ease the pain. I can’t keep running and frankly, if I’m going to die it will be with combed hair, clean clothes and a warm meal in my stomach.

I might as well go home and shower before the big finale.

The walk takes forty minutes because I have no money for a cab and too much pride left to hitchhike. I take the long way, sticking to roads where pools of lamplight overlap. I cut past open restaurants and late-night convenience stores where enough eyes exist that anyone tailing me would get noticed. But still, instinct has my head on a swivel.

My apartment door looks the same. I fish the spare key out of a flower pot by the mat and my hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to get the key into the lock. The click of the deadbolt turning is the most ordinary sound in the world and it nearly breaks me.

I step inside, lock the door, and close my eyes.

The silence wraps around me. The familiar hush of my own space, the ghost of the radio station I leave on low, the residual scent of the lavender candle I burned last Tuesday when the world still made sense.

For a few minutes, the silence is the closest thing to safety I've found since my life turned into chaos.

Keeping the lights off, I make my way to the kitchen counter and grab the phone charger I leave plugged in. I connect my phone.

Before heading to the bathroom, I pull the biggest knife out of the block. It's a chef's knife I bought at a thrift store for six dollars and I've never used it for anything more dangerous than dicing onions, but the weight of it in my hand feels like the first smart decision I've made today.

On second thought…

I grab a rolling pin, too.

I set the knife on the bathroom counter next to the sink, close enough to grab if I need.

“If this is the last shower of your life, Vale, at least make it a good one." I say it to the mirror and the woman staring back at me looks like she's been living in someone else's nightmare.

I peel my shirt over my head and kick off my boots. The paper in the right boot shifts against the insole and I leave it there. The water takes a few minutes to warm up, the pipes groaning in the wall and when the heat finally hits my shoulders I press both palms flat against the tile and let the grime and terror run down the drain.