I’m skeptical that security will last long if I don’t find a job. I sent every last cent I had to Edoardo for a brief two-minute FaceTime with my son. It was nowhere near long enough, but like all dangerous drugs, it was enough to hook me.
I’d give anything for biweekly calls.
Hating that my first thought is to exploit Dante’s obsessive compulsions, I dig my phone out of my pocket. The screen unforgivingly illuminates my face as I scroll through the businesses I researched last week.
One by one, I call them.
The first manager picks up on the second ring.
“Hi, I’m calling about the position you had advertised in the classifieds of theCarlisle Chr?—”
“Position’s no longer available,” he cuts in. “Ownership changed hands, and we no longer need… staff.”
I flinch when he ends our call with the unexpected slam of a landline phone.
After a quick shimmer of my shoulder, I move on to the next business on the list.
My stomach falls to my feet when I get a similar response to the first call.
“Ownership changed hands.”
“Who’s the new owner?”
After a brief pause, he says hesitantly, “Caruso Holdings.”
I end our call before he can say anything else.
The next establishment gives the same answer.
And the next.
And the next.
By the fifth call, my hands shake so badly that I almost drop my phone.
Dante didn’t lie. He bought every club in the country. Every single one. Except he didn’t stop at strip clubs. He took prostitution off the table for me as well.
“When was the business purchased?” I don’t know why I’m subjecting myself to unnecessary hurt, but for some reason, I’m curious to discover if Dante’s decision to buy all the brothels in the region was because he believes he paid to sleep with me last week or because he took my threat tonight as literal.
I sink onto a bench when my caller replies, “An hour ago. Perhaps two. It was a cash offer too good to deny.”
My throat grows scratchy and my eyes burn, but I refuse to cry in public.
He’s boxed me in and cut off every escape route.
An unusual blend of anger and something dangerously close to longing twists inside me.
I hate that.
I should be furious enough to keep this solely about anger.
He’s trying to control me as I’ve been controlled my whole life. That isn’t something I should be okay with.
“I’m not a fucking puppet!” I shout into the night air, startling a couple enjoying an evening stroll.
I groan in frustration when the man on the other end says, “I never said you were, sweetheart.”
“Sorry,” I say, tone lower. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
