Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
MIRA
“ H oly shit,” I whisper, eyes going wide. I knew the guy looked familiar. No wonder he got weird when Whitni mentioned wanting to bring him to a work event. Because Matthew Baker isn’t Matthew Baker.
He’s Lorenzo Moretti, of the Moretti family, as in a mafia family. What the hell has Whitni gotten herself into? Do I tell her Matthew’s true identity or just tell her that he’s not loyal? What if she breaks up with him and he tries to get even by taking her out—mobster style?
My mind is going a million miles an hour and I don’t know what to do. I want to text in the group chat but maybe I shouldn’t put anything in writing? Thank goodness I gave him a fake name…though I did give him my number.
It’s not the number to the cell phone I use everyday, but a track phone I bought just for occasions like this. He shouldn’t be able to find any sort of info with that number and I’ll go home and save his number under “DO NOT PICK UP UNLESS YOU WANT TO DIE” along with a bunch of red flag emojis too.
Shaking my head, I look at my reflection in the mirror. It’s over. Done. I have proof he wasn’t loyal and I should tell Whitni that he was a little flirty but not overtly, yet still not someone she should waste her time with. Maybe she’ll break up with him in a less screaming-match sort of way that’ll keep her safer. It’s not like I can go to the police with this.
Or can I?
The guy didn’t commit a crime by buying me a drink. He’s allowed to use a fake name and hell, I did too. Stepping to the side of the sink, I lean against the wall and text Kat.
Me: You’re never going to guess how my night went.
Kat: Hmmm…he hit on you.
Me: Of course. But he’s not who he says he is.
Kat: Spill the tea!
I send her the article about the Moretti family I had just glanced through.
Me: The one in the gray suit in the back left of the first pic.
Kat: OMG!
Me: I know…
Kat: He’s not even good looking. That is so disappointing.
Me: Right? I thought all mafia men were supposed to be 6’2 at least with dark hair, brooding eyes, and tattoos
Kat: I hate it when real life isn’t BookTok.
Me: hahaha same! But seriously…wtf
Kat: Are you safe?
Me: Yeah. I’m about to head home.
Kat: I’ll watch your location KEEP ME POSTED
Me: I will.
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head again and then laugh. I didn’t think my life would be so thrilling when I started my degree in psychology, set out to be a therapist. And to be fair, it wasn’t until I woke up, realized I had been buried alive by my abusive husband, and started to slowly claw my way out of the grave I’d laid down in.
It took me a while to realize I was thankful for the dark. Without it, I wouldn’t have known how good it feels to have the sun shine down on you, and to know that the warmth and light is never promised.
I put my phone away and remind myself life isn’t a dark romance novel—even if Lorenzo, or Enzo as he prefers—was a towering hunk of man meat. Though I can’t help but let my mind wander as I leave the bathroom, pausing for just a second to scan the bar. Enzo is gone, and I let out a sigh of relief. Wanting to put some distance between myself and the hotel bar, I head toward Monroe Street before I put in for an Uber.
Checking my surroundings, and standing not too far from the doorman, I get my phone back out. Before I have a chance to open the app, a message from a court-ordered texting app pops up.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I huff under my breath, seeing the message is from Cory, my ex-husband. We separated two and a half years ago and finalized a long and drawn out divorce only six months ago. Things took forever because Cory wanted everything—and I mean everything.
A classic narcissist—with the official diagnosis to boot—he felt entitled to get every single penny from our shared assets. He claimed it was “fair” because I got to keep my name, Mira Martin, and the brand I built on social media surrounding it. It was a long and arduous fight, but in the end, the judge saw through his bullshit and awarded me sixty percent of all of our shared assets instead of the standard fifty.
I’ll admit, I have a morbid curiosity when Cory messages me. It’s usually when he’s fighting with his mistress, who I guess is technically his girlfriend now, but she’ll forever be a mistress in my mind since they started dating before we had even filed for divorce. He denied it a thousand times over, but phone records don’t lie, and I had pictures of them on dates together that a friend took. It was hilarious, really, because we think they went several towns over on purpose, yet it wasn’t far enough.
I haven’t opened a message from Cory in months; there’s no need, but curiosity is getting the better of me tonight.
Cory: I just realized I didn’t get my nautical beach towel when I took half the linens.
I blink a few times, not even sure what the hell he’s talking about. Stifling a laugh, I’m about to put my phone back when he sends another message.
Cory: I see you read my message. Are you ready to stop being a petty bitch and reply to the others too? You still owe me for the damaged model cars. Don’t think I won’t take you back to court and hold you in contempt!
Rolling my eyes, I exit out of the texting app and go to put in for an Uber. But right as I’m pulling it up, I sense a man coming up behind me—fast.