11. Amara
AMARA
NO SUCH THING AS SAFE
T he bass from the club stopped an hour ago, but the music still vibrates in my bones even as my shift ends. I step into the humid night, buzzing with city life, and I can’t get over the fact that Pietro fucking owns a club in New York City.
That means he has money and connections, which are probably far deeper than I want to know. And the rough-looking men in the club didn’t alarm him. There’s more to him than he’s letting on. But then again, mafia men don’t announce it to strangers.
No, they worm into your life, then spring it on you, like my father.
I should have known Uncle Vincenzu would fuck up the family. My creepy grandfather was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to human torture. He was a sadist, and my father followed in his footsteps like all the Moretti men before him.
Let’s just say my father believes in corporal punishment. After all, I had a cast on my arm when I was seven. I learned quickly I couldn’t talk back to him. But that didn’t always stop me.
I also learned that my mother was powerless to protect me or any of us. My brothers fell into line to do our father’s bidding. Perhaps they were smarter to give in and not resist.
My beloved grandmother is my mother’s mother, who understands the monster her daughter married.
She refuses to live with my parents even though she’s been getting up there for years.
She has a tiny condo and lives off a modest pension from her husband.
She has a social life through her volunteer work at the church.
She also has friends in her condo and hosts a potluck dinner every Sunday in the community room.
I love her and can’t wait to see her again.
I can’t leave the city because I can’t bear the thought of leaving her. She’s the only good thing in my life. I want to call her, but I’m afraid to. I know she’s fine, but I’d love to hear her voice because I’m overwhelmed being alone, and it’s lonely.
My eyes sweep over the small groups on the street.
The women are dressed in slinky, gaudy dresses, and their sharp eyes are dialed into their surroundings.
They don’t smile. They don’t need to. They linger in the shadows just off the corner, far enough from the club to stay unseen but close enough to strike.
Something about them says trouble—and the kind you might not walk away from.
They’re not difficult to read, but the others in the club?
The men in designer suits that cost thousands of dollars? I wonder who they are and what they do. And who are the Italian men in trainers with tattoos and expensive necklaces around their necks?
Who are the men who come to this club? How many of them have blood on their hands, and how much of that blood has been washed in the club’s champagne-soaked VIP booths?
I wrap my arms around myself as I stride toward the subway, the click of my boots muffled by the city’s constant pulse.
Then I feel it. Again.
A weighty stare presses against my spine, making my shoulders tighten with that creeping sensation that I’m not alone. That someone’s watching and waiting. It’s a scary city, and I wonder if someone is stalking me or if I am psyching myself out.
I shrug. It’s probably nothing.
But, as bad luck goes, just when I convince myself I’m fine, an ominous black SUV pulls up beside me, and the window glides down noisily.
I slow my walk, and my heart races. Every nerve in my body is on edge .
“Get in.” It’s not a suggestion, but I’m pissed.
Elio. One of my father’s men. His voice is the same as it has always been—calm but edged with the kind of authority that allows no room for disobedience.
“I’m not in the mood for a ride down memory lane,” I chirp, knowing if I said that to my father, he’d break my nose again.
“It’s not a request, Amara.”
I sigh, my stomach knotting. Maybe I should’ve run. Maybe I should’ve fought. But I don’t have the energy for either tonight, so I slip inside.
The SUV smells of smoke and quiet desperation. Elio’s sharp gaze flicks to me in the rearview mirror.
“You need to talk to your father,” he says. “Before someone else finds you first.”
“Like whom?” The question barely escapes my lips before the answer churns in my gut. I know the Serbians are leaning on my father to turn me over.
“You know who,” he says, his voice without emotion.
A shiver rakes through my spine. “Milo??”
“Yes.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. I should’ve expected it, but hearing his name still sends ice through my veins. He won’t stop. He never stops.
“You’re father’s suffered losses over this. He’s lost men, and warehouses have burned with products in them. Do you really want to go down this road? Turn yourself in because you won’t be happy if the Serbs take matters into their own hands. We have more leverage if you do this with dignity.”
“That’s what I am? A favor to be bartered?” I mutter, my voice hollow.
“You know that’s all you are. Mafia princesses are a bargaining chip to end wars.
Your mother let you run on with your foolish ideas of a life outside the family, which never works.
You have the Moretti blood in your veins.
It’s a part of you, whether you like it or not.
You were born into it. There’s no getting out. ”
Yeah, there’s no getting out of it unless it’s in a pine box.
“Fine, I’ll be by this week,” I grumble. It’s a temporary truce. A small concession and one that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, like wine that has turned to vinegar.
Elio nods, saying nothing else as he drives me back to my apartment building. I wonder why he didn’t pick me up here if he knew where I lived. And how did he find me? If my father knew where I was, he’d probably take me. Elio must be protecting me.
And how do the Serbs know where our product is? That’s never happened before.
Elio pulls to a stop, and I stare at the familiar entrance of my dilapidated apartment building. Realizing that I have no control over my life hits like a brick. How long has he known my whereabouts?
I live in squalor, yet I’ve not retained my desired anonymity. I should have known I was not savvy enough to pull off my disappearance without the help of professionals who live and work in the criminal underworld.
I slide out of the vehicle.
“See your father this week, or the next visit won’t be so friendly,” Elio threatens.
“I got it,” I snap before trekking up the steps because the elevator is broken again. My body trembles when I enter the apartment, a mixture of fear and stress.
My heart pounds with anger, giving way to tears of frustration.
I let them fall freely as I toss my purse onto the sofa and head to the bathroom.
I turn on the water, my mind blank, my body numb.
I drop a raspberry vanilla bath bomb into the tub and watch it fizz and swirl as I light a candle, the soft scent of vanilla filling the tiny room.
I pull out the space heater and plug it in, turning up the dial so it will heat the tiny room. I try to forget about the electric meter moving faster than a spinning top. Luckily, I’ll have enough money from this paycheck to pay the bill.
I take a moment to breathe and regroup. It doesn’t take long before the fear and exhaustion wash over me without an invitation.
I peel off my clothes, fold them, and set them carefully on the sink. I step into the tub, wondering what Milo? will do to my father if I don’t capitulate. I lay in the water until it grew cold. I shiver as I dry myself and hope the warmth of spring kicks in soon.
Later, I curl up in bed with my phone in hand, calling the only person who can make me laugh at a time like this.
Sarah picks up on the second ring. “Tell me you’re not dead, or I’m calling the cops.”
I let out a weak laugh. “Not dead.”
“Good. Now spill. What happened at work?”
I exhale sharply. “You know last night’s mistake? It just so happens that he’s my boss.”
There’s a beat of silence before Sarah’s laughter explodes through the speaker. “Shut the fuck up. Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“Oh my god. Please tell me his dick is as big as his ego.”
I groan. “Sarah?—”
“No, no, you don’t get to shut me down. Spill. Was it good?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I mean… yes. But that’s not the point.”
“Oh, babe, that’s exactly the point. If you have to be stuck working for a guy, at least it’s one who can wreck you in bed.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s arrogant. A complete ass.”
“And yet?”
And yet.
I refuse to finish that sentence.
Sarah sighs dramatically. “Listen, if you’re going to be miserable at work, at least have something nice to look at. You could do a lot worse.”
“I could do a lot better, too.”
Sarah hums. “Maybe. But let’s be real, you like a challenge.”
I chew my lip. “It’s not just that. I’m stuck working with him.” I’ll never find another job that pays this well with my resume. I need the money. “You know how difficult it is to find good-paying jobs.”
Sarah’s voice softens a fraction. “Yeah, that’s the kinda of shit that makes life a bitch. But you’re good at what you do, Amara. If this guy doesn’t see it now, he will. ”
“Maybe.” I rub my forehead. “I just… I don’t know. I’ve got bigger problems.”
Sarah goes quiet for a beat. “You don’t have to tell me, but if you need help?—”
“No.” I cut her off quickly as my stomach twists. “The less you know, the safer you are.”
A pause. Then Sarah’s voice comes back, softer but still teasing. “That bad, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Sarah sighs. “Okay, okay. Just know that if you need me, I’m here. But in the meantime, you need a distraction. So, I repeat—how big is his dick?”
I burst out laughing despite myself. “Sarah!”
“I’m just saying, if his ego matches, you could be in trouble.”
I shake my head, and my laughter fades, but its warmth still lingers. “You’re the worst.”
“I prefer the term ‘best bad influence.’ Now, get some sleep. And maybe, just maybe, try not to murder your boss tomorrow.”
I hang up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
My father wants me back.
I won’t go. I can’t. And with that thought, I fall into a fitful sleep.