Chapter 5
Roxy
There's a weight draped across my hips and legs, and the second I crack my eyes open, yesterday comes rushing back in vivid, overwhelming detail.
I jerk upright and scan the room. When I glance down, Damien is pushing himself up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"You have two neighbors who take their trash out at five in the morning. Who the hell does that?"
I frown at him. How does he know about Mrs. Margaret with her two white cats, her obsession with waking up at 4 a.m., and her dinner every Friday at the same Italian place?
Only then do I really notice the dark shadows under his eyes.
"You stayed up all night?"
He gives me a confused look before answering.
"As long as it was dark outside, I wanted to make sure you were safe."
Unexpected, dangerous warmth pools low in my stomach at the sincerity in his voice. He means it. This man got maybe an hour of sleep just to watch over me.
"Thanks," I mumble, suddenly awkward.
Great. I must look spectacular right now with my mascara smudged and hair knotted to hell, so I bolt for the bathroom without meeting his eyes again.
One look in the mirror and I shake my head.
I'm a disaster.
Disgusting. Hair greasy, dress clinging to my hips, lipstick smudged like a bad joke.
I press my hands to my temples, willing that voice to shut up. I ran from that place, and no matter how far I've come, it still claws its way to the surface.
Ivette's voice is the reason I put on lipstick before I leave the house. The reason I check my hair twice.
It's not vanity. It's a scar I can't scrub off.
Once I look human again, I step back out to an empty bedroom.
Maybe he's gone, and I won't have to throw him out.
Hope dies quickly when the smell of coffee and frying eggs drifts from the kitchen.
Damien is at the stove in nothing but worn jeans, his broad chest and tattooed arms on full display. Every inch of him is honed for violence, yet he moves with a strange precision, like even the air around him obeys.
I watch him sip from my coffee mug. My mug. The one that says ROXY'S ELIXIR in bold pink letters, a gag gift from Luna.
"Where'd you get eggs?" I ask, knowing my fridge was a wasteland last night.
On the counter sits bread, bacon, even a banana.
"Mrs. Margaret lent them to me."
My eyes go wide and I almost choke on air.
"Excuse me?"
He grins, pushing my mug toward me.
"She was happy to help when I told her I wanted to make sure you ate before work."
Fantastic. I can already imagine every scenario cooking in my sixty-four-year-old neighbor's head.
Right then, my stomach growls loudly enough to wake the dead. No surprise, considering I skipped dinner.
A few bites of banana and one of Damien's eggs later, I feel halfway human again.
When I finally glance up, he's studying me.
"So, are you going to tell me what happened?"
My fingers trace the rim of the mug. I've never told a soul about it. Not even Luna knows. Not because I don't trust her, but because some stains from the past fade better when you never speak them aloud. Or so I thought.
"I don't know every detail. They never caught the culprit, and my memories from that night are foggy."
He pulls his chair closer, his hand brushing my calf. The touch isn't sexual. It's gentle, coaxing, grounding.
"One night, my mom came into my room, terrified. She shoved me into her closet. She'd never done anything like that before. I was five, but even then I knew better than to ask questions. After a while, I heard screaming, but I couldn't move. I just froze in there."
His fingers trace slow patterns on my skin. His eyes don't waver or show boredom. Just patience.
"I wish I could say I stayed because she told me to, but the truth is, I was so scared I turned to stone." The tears come whether I want them or not.
"It wasn't your fault, Roxanne," he says quietly.
"They fought because of me, Damien. I don't know who he was. I didn't recognize the voice. But he was furious that Mom wanted to 'take me away from him.'"
"Why wasn't he caught?" Damien's voice stays calm.
"No evidence. No DNA. Back then, we didn't have cameras, so there was no way to see who came to the house that night. And my five-year-old version of events wasn't much help to the investigation."
So many details got crumpled up and left to rot in a police file. Like the fact that the door wasn't forced, which meant Mom knew him. Like the fact she wasn't his first victim. Three other women were found, each with a maroon dahlia placed beside them.
I tell him how Dad found me still hiding in that closet, how all I remember of his face that night is rage so raw, so searing, it could burn through steel.
How my uncle was the only one to make me eat anything in those first twenty-four hours.
How Ivette, Dad's secretary, looked at me like I was a cockroach she wanted to crush.
How a cop nicknamed the killer The Bloody Dahlia.
"Your father had an alibi?" Damien asks.
"Yeah. He was at a conference in the city. Ivette and others confirmed it."
He just grunts, never stopping that slow, grounding touch on my leg.
That was the night my father stopped loving me. The night I became nothing more than a shadow in my own house.
"And your uncle?"
I almost laugh picturing Uncle Henry, with his wool trousers, collection of hats, and injured leg from twenty-five years ago, as a suspect.
"He was taking his trash out at the exact time of the murder. A neighbor saw him. His house was over an hour away, so no."
Damien watches me, like he's expecting more, but he just nods.
When I finish, a fraction of that weight in my chest lifts. If something happens to me, at least someone knows the story now. Someone else has the details.
"You need to get to work. I'll clean up," he says, and that's when I remember I was supposed to kill him this morning.
"Damien, how long have you been letting yourself into my apartment when I'm not home?"
His eyes widen for a split second before the mask drops back into place.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." But his gaze flicks downward, and his fingers start drumming on the counter.
"Uh-huh." I narrow my eyes. "Stop it, Damien. We're not in a relationship. I appreciate you coming over last night, but this?" I gesture between us. "This is not a thing."
"It's a thing," he counters smoothly. "I just need to remind you, s?onko."
Remind me? My glare intensifies. "What did you just call me?"
He smiles, and God, his whole face lights up as he says, "My little sun."
"Great. And I'll be your little nightmare if you don't knock off the stalking."
From his half-serious expression and smiling eyes, I can tell I'm being completely ignored. How the hell do a man's eyes actually smile? No idea. But his do.
I stand and head to the bedroom to change, already bracing for today's incoming chaos. There's no such thing as a normal day in event planning.
Black knit dress, high heels, enough makeup to look awake. When I step back into the kitchen, it's spotless.
"You're cute when you frown," he calls from the sink.
"I wasn't kidding earlier, Damien. Grab your shirt. You're not staying here when I'm gone."
Last night, in the dark, it was easier to accept that I let the head of the Polish mafia be my emotional support. In daylight, it feels insane. Especially when the man is obsessed with me.
He doesn't argue, just pulls his shirt from where he tossed it last night, and we're heading out when Mrs. Margaret emerges from her apartment.
Can you knock it off with the coincidences? I silently ask the Universe.
When she spots Damien, her face melts. Oh, for the love of God.
"Damien, honey, did Roxy like the breakfast?" she asks, as if I'm not standing right there.
With an honest-to-God laugh, Damien says, "She loves me even more after it, Margaret."
The old woman giggles and blushes.
"She'd be a fool not to latch onto a man who takes care of her."
If I roll my eyes any harder, they'll stay stuck like that.
"Don't wait too long to put a ring on her finger, Damien. Women these days run from the good ones."
"IF YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT ANSWERING THAT, DAMIEN, WE'RE GOING TO FIND OUT IF I'M CAPABLE OF CASTRATING A MAN!"
Mrs. Margaret laughs like I'm joking. Damien's eyes flash with something else entirely. He leans in, his mouth just a breath from mine.
"I'd enjoy anything that means your hands on me, Roxanne. Even if it comes with pain."
My eyes widen and I shove him back.
"I'm not touching you anytime soon," I say, though my voice betrays me. Even I don't believe what I’m saying.
He shakes his head, stepping aside. I walk past him toward my car, fully aware today's going to be a long day.
As I'm getting in, I see him straddling his motorcycle.
"I already told you, I always make my dreams come true!" he shouts.
I freeze, staring. The wind catches a strand of his chestnut hair, and those two goddamn dimples flash as he waves.
I get in my car and drive away.
The Roxy from a few years ago would have jumped him without hesitation. But that Roxy hadn't been cheated on by nearly every guy she'd dated. Hadn't been told to her face, 'You're lucky I stuck it out for two months.'
Apparently, I'm cold. I work too much. I don't get attached.
And apparently, I'm the dream of a mafia boss.
What a fabulous Monday.