Page 106 of A New Days Don

I almost told Massimo I love him.

I’ve officially lost it.

A week without therapy, and an investigation making me run in circles, and I’m turning to a literal murderer and mafia leader for love and help.

But he’s not just a murderer or mafia leader. After the bullshit that I have been through, it took a literal criminal to raise the bar I had set for the people around me. Despite those rather massive flaws and red flags, he cares and treats me like an equal. Not some broken piece of glass that needs to be babied, but a person.

He pushes me out of my comfort zone but doesn’t force me past what I can handle, and if he does, he’s right there to help piece me back together. I can’t deny that since meeting Massimo, I have felt safe and strong enough to break habits that were holding me back from living my life.

I slow the Jaguar Massimo gave me, and park it on the side of the road before running up to my townhouse. I have less than two hours to get to work, but I need to refresh and change. My steps slow as I approach the front porch. One medium-sized pink bag sits on the front porch, with a tag.

That wasn’t there yesterday.

Cautiously approaching the pink bag, I flip the tag over.

What?

I barely know Anita, and I definitely don’t know her well enough to be on spontaneous gifting terms, but the big pink bow and glitter call to a feminine side of me that has me bringing the gift in and placing it on the kitchen counter.

It’s not going to eat you. It’s only a bag from a store.

A sex shop or lingerie store, by the sounds of things.

You’re a fucking adult. Open the damn thing.

Right. An adult.

I tear open the bag, not allowing myself to think twice. I don’t hold back the gasp as small scraps of fabric flit down to the counter. Dark, midnight blue with a satin sheen to them. They look rich, sexy, and yet classy all at the same time, somehow.

The panties are far from the typical cotton bikini style I have grown accustomed to over the last six years. This pair is a strappy thong that is a little sheer, similarly to the bra. The set is dazzling and tempting, but I couldn’t wear something like this. Could I?

This definitely isn't the neighbourhood to park a fancy car in, but I should only be here for a few minutes.

My running shoes crunch against the dirty sidewalk as I slowly make my way to the entrance to the tunnels. Trying to recall the exact path we had gone through with Jazzy was hard, but if I remember correctly, it should be a few paces down this way.

It’s already midday and the sun is out with a vengeance today, warming the streets and concrete with its potent rays. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand as I twist my hair up into a high bun to keep it from sticking to my neck. There is a group of street workers down the road, and a couple of the women narrow their eyes on my badge as I crouch by the sewer entrance.

“She’s not there,” a young voice calls from beside me. I stand with a start, my hand reaching for my taser on instinct when I see a girl who can’t be older than twenty step out from the shadowy alleyway. Her brown, wiry hair is cut short, making the veins on her long, pale neck more distinct. The girl’s arms are covered in pockmarks, and her eyes are shadowed with exhaustion.

“Who?” I ask, even though I am almost certain she means Jazzy. She looks familiar. I think she was down in the tunnels the day Jazzy took us there.

“Jazzy,” she nods, her eyes darting around us, as if she is hearing something I’m not.

I nod slowly, “Where is she?”

The girl shrugs, sinking back into the shadows, away from the potent sun, “Dunno, haven’t seen ‘er in days. She was helpin’ me get sober.”

I blink a couple of times, watching as her skin starts to itch. She looks rapidly around me again, so I soften my voice, “Hey, I’m a friend of Jazzy. Do you want to come with me?”

Whoever she is, it’s clear that sobering up from whatever drugs she used to do is taking its toll on her body. I will find Jazzy later, but she needs my help now.

“N-no,” She stammers as her arms jerk.

“It’s okay. What if we just sit and chat? How many days are you sober?” I ask, watching as she nods frantically, sliding herself down the wall. I follow her, sitting on the sidewalk in front of her.

“F-five days. Five days sober.” She itches her almost raw arm again.

“Are you feeling itchy?” I ask her, keeping my voice light, and she nods.