He just walks away, slamming the door behind him. Am I that undesirable? I have a hard road of seducing ahead of me. Straight guys need time to realize the beauty of same-sexfrolicking,but I have a feeling this one is going to be harder.
I use the toilet. And then feel a little lightheaded as I reach the sink. I grab the cold, white edge with both hands. My reflection in the cracked mirror comes back pale. The old, smearedmakeup and the bruises gave life to a Picasso painting. I have a cut lower lip and a fingerprint necklace around my throat.
“Art Enzino, your life is still a shit show in Technicolor,” I sigh.
I look down at my bruised wrists and take a deep breath. My stomach is burning with hunger now. I need to hurry, before my hypoglycemia starts acting up. I brush my teeth using my finger and the toothpaste I find on the sink. The bar of soap on the little plastic plate looks cheap, but I use it anyway to wash my face. The towel smells like Luca, and my nose lingers an extra second before I hang it back on the plastic hook over the horrid, brownish, flowery wall tile.
It would take way too much time and brainpower to sex myself up this early in the morning, plus the wacko took my purse and the little makeup I had in there. I quickly take off my clothes—turning on the phone and leaving it under the pile—and take a shower. There is no big towel, so when I’m done I use the small one near the sink again. It gets soaked quickly.
I brush my fingers on the side of my head. There’s no blood, but I can feel a bump. No headache or vision loss. I should be fine. I look out of the tiny window. The closest building seems abandoned, and the squirrel disappeared from the dead tree. I grab the cell and notice a few texts from Rami. No body of a boy was found in any park in the city or around, but he heard someone saw some gangster-looking men carrying a long black bag outside Bronx Park. One of those men had long scars on his face, and another matched the description of Don Sebastian Leone. On top of that, Doppi’s nineteen-year-old son is missing.
I text Rami.
Me:
Do you think the dead body in that bag was Doppi’s son?
While I wait for a reply, I try to dry my hair with the damp towel.
Rami:
Yes. It’s too much of a coincidence and the secrecy around it also makes sense
I search my mind for the boy’s name or face. I met him a couple of times when I went to Coretti’s to see Aurora. All I remember about him is a cocky boy wearing too much cologne. But why would someone kill Doppi’s son? He was a soldier, the lowest rank. He probably knew nothing about the family’s deals. Luca asked about it, so it seems he wasn’t the one to kill him.
Me:
Keep an ear on the streets. Let me know if more details are leaked
Rami:
Will do. Did you change your mind about the rescue team?
Me:
I’ll stay put for the time being
Rami:
You’re nuts
Tell me something I don’t know. But sometimes you need to choose the lesser evil.
I power off the cell again to keep the battery life for as long as I can. Then I look at my wrinkled clothes on the ground. I’d walk out ass naked without a hint of shame, but what about the phone? The idea of wearing my lace panties one more time is kind of gross. I could go commando, only wearing the skirt.
A sudden, booming knock makes me jump and hide the phone behind my back. The door opens just enough for him to throw some clothes inside.
A scream almost leaves my mouth when I hear Luca’s guttural voice. “Hurry the fuck up.”
The sound of his receding steps makes me suck air into my lungs again. I hurriedly close the door and then grab the pair of sweatpants and the oversized t-shirt off the floor. I huff at the thought of wearing anything so ill-fitting before I realize they are Luca’s. Didn’t expect him to possess even a smidge of kindness toward me.
They’ll be way too big for me, but I can make it work in my favor. I wear the chest chains again, then make a quick knot on the hips and a little tear on the collar of the extra-large t-shirt so that the white fabric smoothly rides down one shoulder instead of swamping me. I’d like to ignore the huge boxer briefs in favor of going commando, but I still need a place to stuff my phone in. Another knot and the underwear stays up—barely. The black sweatpants, they are more challenging to style and in need of some deeper thought. I settle on letting them ride dangerously low on my hips—pulling at the front laces—and then rolling up the bottoms so I won’t trip over them.
I quickly wash my panties and hang them on the shower rod—imagining Luca’s face when he sees them is satisfying enough. Igive myself a last look in the mirror—damp hair, fresh face, and loose shirt showing the body chain underneath.
When I emerge back into the kitchen, Luca’s searing gaze as he takes me in makes my last-minute, forced fashion choice worth it. I didn’t expect a compliment or a smidge of flattery from him, but an angry growl while pointing at the sofa leans too much on the other side.
Still, I don’t say anything. I’m fucking starving, and I don’t want to make the wacko even more irate. Even though my sole presence seems to do that. I walk as slow as a snail, though. Pettiness is such a great way to vent. I abruptly stop a couple of feet from the sofa as I’m hit by a dizzy spell. My body sways, and I would have lost my balance if it weren’t for something keeping me upright.
