Chapter 10 Daisy
DAISY
Want to be on my level? Climb, bitch.
I walk around for the next week in a daze of thinking holy shit, I made it, Ma—which might be more meaningful if I actually had a “Ma” instead of being a foster kid reject.
But that doesn’t matter anymore because I’m a rich man’s wife.
A Cheesecake Factory–level rich man’s wife.
It’s not just surreal, it’s unbelievable.
Giulio’s guys are good. I have to give them credit.
It takes me that entire week to unpack all of my belongings, but somehow, they seemed to know which things were mine and which were Michelle’s.
Maybe it’s because she was the one who purchased all of our shared items—or they were purchased for us by her family—and all I own is pretty obviously mine. Books. Books. More books.
We eat together every night, my new husband and me. Sometimes, we’re silent. Sometimes, he asks me questions about my day. My first attempt at cooking dinner for him ended up being my last when he came home to me covered nearly head to toe in tikka masala sauce.
He stood in the doorway, blinking at the sight of his countertops speckled with red liquid and the fire alarm blaring from the burning chicken on the stove.
If I wasn’t sure he could handle a murder scene, I’d have worried he’d turn tail and run.
Not Giulio, though. No, instead, he strode over, turned off the stove, and announced he’d be hiring a chef to come in once a week to cook ready-made meals for me.
Grumbling and smelling like Indian spices that made my mouth water and my head hurt because I was obviously cursed to never master them, I agreed.
All the while, my phone sat in a drawer of the nightstand in the bedroom where I’d woken up.
The fear I feel any time I look at that damn drawer is ridiculous, but I haven’t gone this long without talking to Michelle in years.
The last time was during college. Somehow, I developed walking pneumonia two days into the worst finals week I’d ever experienced.
As soon as my last test was taken, I collapsed before ever reaching my dorm room, and she was called by the resident assistant to take me to the hospital that night—and only because I refused an ambulance.
Despite what I told Giulio about not letting him cut my best friend out of my life, Giulio’s family isn’t exactly blue collar.
They’re criminals—that’s the only reason why they’d hide the fact that Giulio’s original bride was murdered on her wedding day.
My initial resistance was mostly because I resent being told what to do, but after some time…
I have to wonder if he wasn’t right, if Michelle would be safer away from me.
It’s not like I can meet up with her at work, either.
My position at the temp agency is kaput.
No doubt, I’ve got a termination notice sitting in there either via text, email, or voicemail.
Even if Giulio seemed the understanding sort—which he doesn’t—I doubt he’d let me continue to work there anyway, and now that I don’t have to pay rent, I’m determined to use this stroke of luck to my advantage.
If you can call being forcibly married off to a stranger and the son of a mafia man a stroke of luck.
Glass half full. Glass half empty. It’s all about how you look at the cards you’ve been dealt.
Right now, I have the opportunity to go after the job I want without having to worry about paying outrageous rent prices for a shit stain apartment, and I’m going to do it.
Even if it means it’s time to face the music for abandoning my roommate.
Biting the bullet, I march into my bedroom in Giulio’s penthouse suite and rip open the drawer to grab my cell phone with its cracked protective screen and faded pink case.
It had been off when I woke up here, and I never bothered to turn it back on.
Now, I do, pressing the button on the side and waiting anxiously for the thing to finish the process of waking up.
Ping! Ping! Ping! Yup, just as I anticipated, the second I get service, a million notifications come through.
Okay, so it’s only just under fifty, but I check them all anyway.
Two are emails—one, a final notice of termination and abandonment of employment from the temp agency for not contacting them for so long.
I’d guessed that. Another is a recruitment email from a job I applied for at Hitchcock’s Publishing.
Refraining from screaming in surprise and excitement, I bite my lower lip and save it, making a mental note to get back to them after I finish going through the rest.
A couple of the voicemails are from telemarketers—all of which I delete after the first two seconds of their message. There are nineteen missed calls from Michelle and a few from a coworker at the agency—likely wanting to know where I’ve gone.
“Never-never land, girl. I’ve gone to never-never land,” I murmur to myself as I finally click away from the phone calls and see the dozens of texts from Michelle.
They start off as one would expect. Confusion. Concern. Worry. Then they slowly shift to frustration and anger. Back to concern. The last one stabs a dagger into my chest.
Michelle: Please, Daisy. I haven’t heard from you in days, and all of your stuff is gone. I’m worried. Just let me know you’re okay.
I am such a shit friend.
Guilt weighs down my shoulders, making me slump forward as I read her last text.
I should’ve gotten over my anxiety and fear and just called her that first night, if only to let her know that I was alive even if I couldn’t warn her about the moving guys.
She’s got to be freaked the hell out, and here I am, sitting pretty in a penthouse playing wife.
I’ve never been one of those girls who drops their friends for whatever flavor of boyfriend they’re into at any given time.
I wonder if she thinks I’ve been replaced by an alien replica—if our roles were reversed, I would.
Even now as I stare down at my screen with a familiar and annoying burning behind my eyes, I take the coward’s way out, and instead of calling her, I send a text.
Daisy: Hey, I’m okay. I’m so sorry for not telling you, but G made me move in with him. I’m living with him now, and it’s—
I stop typing, not sure how to explain my situation. I delete the text and restart, this time asking her to meet me at a local coffee shop that’s not a far walk from where Giulio’s penthouse is. Surely if I stay nearby, he won’t have a problem with me going out to meet Michelle.
Michelle’s response is instantaneous.
Michelle: Saturday. 8 a.m.
She’s pissed. She never responds so quickly or so shortly.
Michelle is known for long, ranting voice clips and paragraph-long messages.
That, plus the fact that she’s demanding I be there at 8 a.m. when we both hate early mornings is enough to send fear skittering down my spine.
Between an angry mobster and my best friend—I’d rather go against the man with a background in murder.
Fuck. Me.
Saturday comes far too fast, and I’m up early, mostly because I couldn’t sleep knowing I’m about to be reamed a new butthole by a rightfully furious best friend, but also because I need to sneak out from under Giulio’s nose.
Yeah, okay, so I was too scared he’d deny me the right to leave the house. He can be a bit scary.
Mean Daisy snorts, the sound all too familiar, as I finish getting dressed in a pair of ripped leggings and an over-long T-shirt with the phrase, “Dead Inside Still Alive” written above a skeleton with butterfly wings and a princess tiara on its bony skull.
Hopefully seeing me wear her Christmas gift from last year will soften Michelle’s anger.
The T-shirt flops over my ass and I grab my handsewn purse and strap it on over my head, slipping my phone inside the cup of my bra before scowling at the clock on my nightstand that reads half past 7 a.m. She better appreciate my effort to be prompt.
I peer into the hallway to make sure the coast is clear, glancing up one side of the long corridor before turning my gaze toward the opposite end that opens up into the living area.
It takes approximately five minutes for me to creep up the hallway toward the main rooms. Each second feels like it lasts an eternity as I walk with my Converse in hand to not make any more noise than necessary.
The sound of water running somewhere in the house echoes back to me.
Giulio taking a shower as he gets ready for the day? Probably.
When I’ve woken up during the week—usually after noon—he’s always been gone. My footsteps slow to a near crawl when I get to the opening of the living room. It’s blessedly empty, but my heart races inside my chest, pounding so loud I swear to God it’s trying to announce my great escape.
I’m in the living room, though, and no one is the wiser.
Obstacle one: overcome. Now for obstacle two—the damn security system.
I hurry across the floor, stepping up onto the platform that hosts the kitchen, and go immediately to the PIN pad hanging on the wall. The small digital screen reads “armed.”
“Fuck.” The curse leaves me with a rush of air. I know this kind of system; I’ve worked in houses—as a temporary maid or caterer—that have them all the time. I’ve only got one chance to disarm it and get out. If I give it the wrong PIN code, it’ll go off.
I close my eyes and suck in a long, slow breath.
When I reopen them with my following exhale, I step up to the PIN pad and flick down the cover.
I watched Giulio put the code in to arm it for just this reason last night.
I remember that code. My primary concern now is wondering if there’s a different code to arm versus disarming the system.
Minutes are ticking. I gotta go if I want to meet Michelle on time.
With sweaty palms, I lift a hand and quickly type in the code I watched Giulio use and then squeeze my eyes shut, praying it works.
A light beeping noise is my response, and my eyes pop open to see the digital screen go from “armed” to “disarmed.”
“Ha!” I clamp a hand over my mouth as the excited sound escapes. I freeze, but no harsh, pounding footsteps come up the hall. Then, because I can’t help it, I do a little jig in front of the PIN pad to celebrate my success.
The front door hovers in my periphery, and I stride toward it, a pep in my step that I haven’t felt in ages.
Maybe I’m a secret genius. Maybe I have a calling as a jewel thief.
I make quick work of the lock and yank the door open, sprinting into the hall and turning toward the elevators as it snicks shut behind me.
Even if I am a magical escape artist, there’s no reason to stand around and chance getting caught.
I hoof it to the elevator, pushing the button ten billion times before the chime above the doors rings and they slide open to reveal the empty interior.
Inside, I hit the button for the lobby, but it isn’t until I walk past the doorman—dressed in a fine uniform as he reaches for the door handle and holds the front door of the building wide for me—that I realize I’ve made it.
Fresh morning air slaps me in the face, a jolt of energy following in its path. I got away, and I didn’t have to fight with Giulio to let me go. After all, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
I practically bounce down the street toward the coffeehouse that we agreed to meet at.