Chapter 5
5
G ia
AJ coos in my arms. She’s getting more and more used to me. She plays with my necklace, wrapping her fingers around it but not pulling it anymore. It’s like she enjoys me being there and wants to recognize my presence. My heart squeezes. I never considered that it’d be hard to leave her when the time came.
Realistically, if I leave today, she won’t even think about me in two weeks. They’ll find someone else to fill my shoes, and her life will continue.
My life needs to go on, too.
But I’m not ready yet.
I’ve been researching small towns I can move to, close to bigger cities but with lower living costs. I’d love to move to a big city where I can blend easily with the crowd, but that means needing more cash to get on my feet.
I need more money, regardless.
A few more months shall do. Then freedom will come.
I sit AJ on the grass as we sunbathe in the backyard. Even though she’s only seven months old, her father has already bought a playset and trampoline. You’d think she has older siblings.
I chew on my lower lip.
Dante knocked on my bedroom door two nights ago, carrying my naughty delivery. At the end of our conversation, when I asked him if he offered assistance, I meant to say it jokingly—to make it awkward for him so he’d have a minor embarrassment, as I felt when he opened the box I had ordered.
What followed was a twinkle in his eyes and a latent awareness. He didn’t take it as a joke, and for a flicker of a moment, he considered my offer. I may be flattering myself, but he entertained the idea of fucking me.
That thought alone injects excitement into my veins.
He doesn’t know why I need my toys. When I was married, I had the worst sex life with Ciro. He didn’t care for my pleasure, ever. The only way I came was using toys—which I kept hidden so he wouldn’t find out and have the perfect reason to beat the hell out of me or worse. Besides, using them now distracts me from overthinking when I’m alone at night—thinking about how my mom must be disappointed in me, wherever she is. I killed a man. Not just any man, but her former husband. At the time of her death, she still believed Aroldo to be a good enough person.
I don’t think he ever hit her; I would have known. During their short six-month marriage before her death, they established a routine. He was always between jobs, and after she died and I married Ciro—when the pretense ended—I found out why. He managed small deliveries for Ross Santini here and there.
As for Mom, she was a busy paralegal. She worked hard to provide for me—and thanks to early investments she made when she was younger, we lived in a beautiful home. She even had a lake house she rented from time to time for extra income.
What would Mom say if she found out I killed her husband and permanently injured mine?
Even though intellectually, I know I had to do these acts, the daughter in me is tethered to guilt. What would Dante do if he found out about what I did? His body count certainly outweighs mine, but I’m watching his daughter. I’m the help. Shouldn’t I be someone without blood in their hands?
AJ makes a laughing noise, and I run my finger down her nose.
“Girlfriend, you don’t know the half of it,” I tell the chunky baby.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen.
No one has my phone number except Chevy, Tara, and Dante. Of course, I bought a prepaid smartphone after I fled home and made a point not to give it out to anyone unless strictly necessary. Chevy got it from my work application form, and Tara needed it because we eventually texted about work schedules. I doubt that Dante is calling me from an unknown number.
I choose to accept the call but don’t speak. Instead, I hold the phone against my ear and wait.
The little hairs on the back of my neck stand. Shouldn’t they identify themselves by now if the caller is a telemarketer or someone who called the wrong number?
I swallow the lump in my throat and wait a beat longer. I listen for anything that may give away the person on the other end of the line. I could recognize Ciro’s breathing pattern from another planet. Even though he’s fit, he always breathes heavily, like whatever he’s doing takes a lot of effort, and he needs to rip each word from the depths of his lungs.
When we were married, I hoped that his lungs would give out due to his excessive smoking. I wasn’t lucky enough for him to get sick. That bastard never caught a cold a day in his fucking life.
After another second, the caller hangs up.
I put the phone on the coffee table like it’s burnt me.
Then I look at sweet AJ again.
Could this be a coincidence? Or has the bastard gotten a hold of my new phone number? And if he has, what else can he find out?
Chills spill into my stomach; the uncomfortable sensation spreads through me. When I left, I did everything I could to erase who I’d been in the past. I used cash only, the amount I’d saved without Ciro’s knowledge.
I bought a fake ID, took buses, and changed my hairstyle from brown wavy hair down my back to medium-length, dirty blonde streaked hair. I slept in hotels, avoided being seen, and went unnoticed.
What would tip him my way? Once, days after I left, I noticed a tag in my purse. Then it hit me—even though I tossed my phone, the one I used when I was miserably married, the bastard must have snuck the tiny air tag in the purse I used when I worked at the café. It was sewn inside a small pocket I didn’t use—I only found out when I was removing some stuff. Made sense that a sick motherfucker like Ciro would have done it while we were married, in addition to tracking my phone location—he must have put it there on one of the few occasions I left my phone at home.
I immediately tossed the air tag as soon as I found it, followed by the purse. But by then, I was already in Chicago, looking for jobs.
If Ciro had known where I was, he would have chased me sooner, wouldn’t he?
Doubts still haunt me long after I put AJ to sleep and return to my bedroom.
As I brush my teeth, I hear a squeaky sound from Dante’s bedroom.
Is it AJ? Is she up?
The sound is similar to the little noises she makes when fidgeting, about to cry. I haven’t seen Dante yet, so maybe he hasn’t arrived. The man is gone a lot, so I assume he’s never around whenever I need to feed her in the middle of the night—and if he’s asleep, I go in and out of his bedroom without making a peep. I’ve mastered ignoring his strong physique in the big bed.
I rush to his suite, and when I go in, I check her crib.
She’s making baby gurgles in her sleep. I sigh. Maybe the tension from earlier is making me hear things, like people in horror movies or overwhelmed moms. I’m not her mom, but I spend every waking moment of her life with her. Enough time for me to start hearing noises that aren’t there.
I scan the room—Dante is not in his bed, but the door to the en-suite bathroom is open, and steam swirls out. He’s showering.
I eye the door to the hallway.
It’s easy to slip out of his bedroom and return to mine. The appropriate thing to do.
The right thing to do.
But the pulse—the pulse throbbing between my legs says otherwise.
I haven’t wanted to sleep with anyone for a long time. Honestly, I don’t even know what that’d be like. Sleeping with the boss is out of the question; it would only muddy the waters. But peeking quickly—really quickly—as he showers, albeit creepy, would give me enough fuel to have some fun with my vibrator later.
Why not?
He’ll never know.
I tip-toe to the door and carefully pop in my head. I was right. I see the shape of his strong physique and inhale deeply. Man.
Without entering, I shift my weight slightly to my left, tilting my body to get a better view. The water glides down Dante’s body like a river streaming between rock formations. His shoulders are broad, his chest wide and fit, and his abs the result of hours of strenuous exercises. Damn.
My attention dips lower, and the second I see his cock, I almost gasp.
It’s a work of art.
Long, girthy, and smooth, anchored by muscular thighs.
I lick my lips. A part of me feels dirty—filthy. I shouldn’t be watching my boss take a shower without his consent. But knowing it doesn’t make me want to go away. If anything, it only makes me more aroused, pinning me to the spot.
My boobs feel heavy, tingles stinging my nipples.
He leans against the white marbled tile, and one of his hands travels down his body.
I chew my lower lip.
He palms his cock, and my internal temperature rises so high that it would make hell seem like a cool, breezy place. His groan reverberates through the walls, and I smack my lips shut to trap the moan forming in my throat. He strokes his cock, growing in his hand. And growing. And growing.
I touch my chest to ensure my heart won’t find a way out.
He strokes himself viciously, and I can’t look away. Damn. This is heaven. A pornographic heaven, but still.
Then, his gaze collides with mine, and shame washes over me.
A lump forms in my throat, and a hot sensation of panic engulfs my body.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I shouldn’t have done this. I give myself a mental slap, and the adrenaline of getting caught drives me. I take several steps back, willing my legs to do their job and break eye contact. I open my lips but don’t produce a single sound.
I turn around and dash out of there, racing through the hallway until I’m in the safe confines of my room.