Posy's Mafia Run

POSY

W hen I wake up, Dario’s sitting at the table by the window, playing on his phone. He’s set up the chess board. My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

I can’t think about earlier. I can’t. I was raised around dangerous men, but they never brought it home. Never made me watch. My stomach lurches, and I swallow it down.

Dario rolls a bishop in his fingers. Rays of late afternoon sun warms his tan skin, and his hair’s damp. A stray black lock falls onto his forehead. He’s wearing a gray zippered hoodie and black track pants. His feet are bare. He rarely dresses so casually.