15. Amara
AMARA
THE SHIRT I STOLE
T he sheets are soft and far too luxurious for someone like me. I wake slowly, stretching against the plush mattress, blinking as the early morning light filters through the oversized windows. I don’t have to look to know Pietro is gone.
The place feels empty without him. But I don’t have time for that now.
Those thoughts and feelings need to stay in the box.
I don’t have the luxury of attachments. I know that anyone remotely near me can get hurt, whether they are in the mafia or not.
Bystanders are often hurt simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I sigh, wishing I could stay here all day and sulk in the silk sheets that slip against my skin. With a heavy sigh, I scoot to the edge of the magnificent bed. My bare feet meet the cool floor as I stand and move through the suite.
I’m filled with curiosity about my father’s fate, and I’m starving. I pull on Pietro’s shirt, sliding my arms into it. It smells like him: minty, clean, like a spring day in the country. His cologne must have cost thousands, but it’s worth every penny.
I cautiously walk deeper into the hotel suite, but I find it’s more like a home, a costly and expansive home, as I catch a glimpse of Central Park through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
This is more than a temporary stay as I find multiple bedrooms, a sprawling living room, and a view of the city that feels like something out of a dream.
Or a trap.
I reach for my phone, anxious to see what happened to my father. I’m torn. I briefly contemplate what will happen if he dies. Would it really be that terrible? Then, I’m consumed with guilt.
I scroll through the news out of habit as much as I am interested.
I pull up Page Six, which is already buzzing about the Borrelli wedding.
Flashes of silk and gold, expensive champagne, and handsome men in tailored suits fill my screen.
The celebration appears to be something from a different world.
A world I had a front-row seat to last night, wrapped in Pietro’s arms, nestled against his alarmingly muscular body.
But it’s the headline below that makes my stomach twist.
My father.
Hospitalized.
Stable.
Damn. And double damn.
I let out a slow breath, staring at the words like I could make them disappear. He’s not dead. Not yet. But maybe this will buy me time.
Setting my phone down, I walk to the kitchen, hungry for my caffeine fix, when I pass the dining room table. And that’s when I find a note in Pietro’s handwriting, which is sharp and precise, just like him. I smirk.
Amara, order breakfast. Dial zero, and Pedro will make anything you want. Later-P.
He’s gone, and my heart sinks like a rock. There goes my hope that we’d be anything more than a hookup.
Disappointment flickers through me before I can shove it down. I don’t know what I expected. He’s not the kind of man to linger. Still, something about waking up alone in an unfamiliar place unsettles me. I wish he were here with me. But I’m being ridiculous.
I shake off my yearnings for Pietro when my stomach grumbles. I pick up the phone and order Belgian waffles with a stack of bacon. I’m famished.
As I wait, I decide to take advantage of the state-of-the-art bathroom.
I slip out of my shirt and step into the high-end walk-in shower.
I am captivated by its sheer enormity, wishing I could wash my nightmares away.
I step into the steam and enjoy the hot water, noting that the water pressure is illegal.
I dry off and slip back into his dress shirt. I’ve already decided to wear it when I leave. A quiet reminder that last night was real.
Pietro strikes me as a man with the memory of an elephant. He’s not one to talk unless he has something to say, either.
He’s a Borrelli, which means he’s worth billions.
My father is right. He’s connected. It all fits. He has a driver, and I notice men around the club who aren’t the standard variety for security.
Of all the men I could have met at the club, it’s ironic that I picked a man in the mafia. I don’t want to be in the mafia; perhaps my father was right about that, too. I can’t escape it.
I wonder what role he plays in the family business—this penthouse has to be worth hundreds of millions, and he doesn’t strike me as the boardroom type.
I try to recall what I’ve heard about the Borrellis. I remember the city council’s heated debates over the height restrictions for this hotel. But now that’s not all. The family also sponsors the domestic violence safe houses for battered and abused women.
My thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on the door.
I open it, and a hotel staff member greets me dressed in a starched, white uniform with red trim.
I thank him and look around for my purse to tip him.
Then, my heart sinks when I realize this meal probably costs a few hundred dollars, and the tip would be more than I can afford.
I glance at the man, who gives me a knowing look and says, “There’s no need. It all goes on Mr. Borrellis tab,” before he turns on his heels. He lets himself out like he does this every day. And perhaps he does.
Well, if that’s not a perk, I don’t know what is.
I wonder if the staff knows his family’s secret. The truth is, I don’t even know if our families work together. I’ve only recently been dragged into our mobbed-up world, which turns my stomach .
So far, I’ve learned that my life isn’t mine. I’m a pawn—owned by my father, promised to a future husband. Traded. Bartered. Silenced.
If I marry Vukan, what will he do to me?
Being a mafia princess isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
I settle into a dining room chair, pull my legs up, and cross them in my lap before I sink my teeth into the bacon.
“Oh, my God, this is the bomb.” I helped myself to the pot of coffee and noticed a smaller carafe. I peer inside it. It smells strong, so I pour myself a cup and watch the dark liquid fill my coffee cup.
I swallow the bacon and taste the new coffee. It’s espresso. Pietro must like it.
I still don’t know much about the handsome devil who bears his prominent family’s name.What are his secrets?
I’m lost in my thoughts over the elusive billionaire—the man who came inside me repeatedly last night. I’m still marveling at how he appears to like me if he wants a repeat.
And it was hot. The hottest sex I’ve ever had. I can’t even finish counting the number of orgasms the man gives me when I’m coming again.
I can’t stop my grin as I remember how I slid my hand over his taut six-pack abs. He must live in a gym as the muscles in his legs ripple when he walks.
He says I’m his.
I hope he comes with a small army, as it’s only a matter of time before my father sends men for me. Whether it’s hostile or not, I don’t know. But my father will go to any lengths necessary to get what he wants. Nothing means more to him than adding another zero to a business deal.
After I finish breakfast, I decide I’d better get home. Sarah will be back soon, and I’m excited to see her.
I take one last view of the park and pull on my trousers. I leave my shirt as I’d look funny carrying it. I stuff my bra in my purse and slip into my heels. It’s only been two days since my last walk of shame.
But it’s so worth it.
But as I walk the streets, I’m keenly aware my father has eyes on me and that from here on out, I’m never alone.
My father’s men are always there, lurking and waiting.
But it never dawned on me that there might also be other eyes on me and that they live in the shadows and are possibly trailing behind me right now with a different agenda.
By the time I reach my apartment, my nerves are stretched thin. The place is still mine; it is small but comfortable in a way that the hotel will never be. I kick off my shoes, throw my bag on the counter, and Sarah breezes in behind me just as I flop down on the couch.
“Tell me something good,” I say.
She hums thoughtfully. “I might have a thing for a pilot.” She tosses her luggage into her room and returns to sit with me on the sofa.
I sit up, grinning. “A pilot? That’s new.”
“I know. Right? He’s cute. He always flirts with me when I grab coffee at the terminal. I think he might actually ask me out.”
I chuckle. “Or maybe you should ask him out first. You know, take charge of your destiny.”
Sarah groans dramatically. “Ugh. Don’t make me do the work. I like the chase. And he needs to do the chasing. Didn’t you learn anything from the book He’s Just Not That Into You?”
I shrug. “Who follows rules? That’s no fun!” I tease her, and then we end up talking longer. I love girl time with Sarah; her usual humor chips away at the tension I’ve been carrying.
“Oh, by the way, my father is in the hospital.”
“Way to bury the lead,” she gasps. I briefly fill her in on my father’s drama, leaving out the details I can’t tell her to keep her safe, and by the time we’ve finished talking about it, I almost feel normal.
Almost.
Dinner is an uninspired bag of bagel bites eaten while standing in the kitchen. The night is creeping in, and with it, my next shift at work.
Pietro.
How will he handle this? Handle me?
I hate taking off his shirt and giving it a place of honor, hanging it on the only wooden hanger in my closet, and fastening the top button so it won’t slide off. It’s the focal point of my sorry-ass- looking wardrobe.
I tug on another pantsuit, put my hair up, and apply makeup sparingly. I can’t afford to replace it, and don’t know why I’m even using it for work.
Except I want Pietro to see me at my best.
Last night was not my best.
I grab my handbag and hug Sarah before walking out the door. I enter the night, unaware of whose eyes might be watching me as I walk toward the subway.