Violet
Luciano:
He's doing fine.
Me:
Good. Has anybody checked on his wounds?
Luciano:
I'll make sure doc comes by today
That makes me feel better. God, I miss him. With the way I'm longing to see him again, one would think I'd known that man for years instead of a few weeks.
What I tried to prevent with my preemptive strike of breaking things off before they went too far has come to bite me in the ass, because guess what? I miss him so much, it makes my heart hurt. It's only been what? A little more than twenty-four hours? And I'm already driving myself insane.
The only lifeline I have to him is Luciano, who is all too happy to supply my hourly doses of Marcello fixes by filling me in on how my ex-boss, ex-patient, ex-lover is doing.
To his credit, Luciano hasn't asked yet why I want to know. I'm sure he's figured it out. He's a smart man. Smarter than me, that's for sure.
My only consolation is that I got a call from Mom this morning apologizing for her rudeness a couple of days ago and asking me for another luncheon to make up for it.
The relief in her voice was apparent when I told her that I quit my job with Marcello.
I saw no need to go into any further details of that night.
That night…
Shit.
Just thinking about the things we did makes me wet.
My body won't let me forget him—won't let me move on.
My pussy's been aching for hours, punishing me for taking away the best thing I've ever let her have.
Between the throbbing between my thighs and the hollow ache in my chest, I'm a walking disaster—a hot, broken mess.
The worst part is that it's not just the sex. It's him I'm missing.
That glimpse he gave me—of who he is when he isn't the boss, the threat, the legend—that man is still haunting me. That version of him? He was warm. Protective. Smart. Dangerous, yes, but in a way that made me feel safe when I shouldn't have.
I can't stop thinking about him. I see him in every shadow. Hear his voice in the quiet moments before sleep takes me. Taste him on my tongue like something I was never supposed to have but did anyway.
If he were just a man, I would've never broken it off. I would've stayed. Let myself fall. Let myself love him.
But he's not just a man.
He's a mobster. A killer. A king built on blood and secrets.
Two nights ago, panic overtook me. I ran. Full speed, up those basement stairs I swore I'd never descend in the first place.
And now I'm here. Standing at the top. Again.
Staring down into everything I tried to leave behind, with no idea how to go back.
Or if I even want to. My logical mind tells me it's not safe.
No, scrap that, it's fucking dangerous and stupid, but my heart…
my heart wants me to run back down, tell him I was wrong, tell him that I want to give us a shot.
It's not even just my heart. Part of me wants this dangerous life, wants to stop the good girl life, wants to experience what he has to offer.
A life of excitement. Well, maybe not life, because he hasn't exactly asked me to be his wife, not that I want him to.
Even if it were only for a few months, I would like to find out what we could be.
I'm so confused right now that I have no idea what to do. All I know is—I can't seem to close the damn door.
And part of me is terrified I never will.
I try to distract myself by browsing house listings. It's not easy, you can't just search for a fixer-upper. Even when I do come across one, I can't summon any enthusiasm for it. I heart it, though, intending on looking at it again later.
A news flash crosses my screen, and when I see the name Orsi, my heart stutters.
Body Found Outside NYPD Precinct Identified as Roberto Giordano; Wife Missing After Multiple Homicide Discovered
A body discovered yesterday morning outside a Brooklyn police station has been identified as Roberto Giordano, 38, a local businessman with alleged ties to organized crime.
The body, left outside the 77th Precinct wrapped in plastic, was unrecognizable due to severe trauma and was confirmed via DNA.
After identification, officers attempted to notify Giordano's wife, Sophia Giordano (née Orsi), but discovered eleven additional bodies inside the couple's Park Slope home.
Sophia, 22, is the sister of Marcello Orsi, rumored to be the current head of the Orsi crime family. She is currently missing, and investigators have not confirmed whether she is a victim, suspect, or in hiding.
The NYPD is working with the organized crime task force. No arrests have been made.
My first impulse is to call Marcello. He has to be going crazy with worry.
I can't even imagine what he's going through right now.
I know how much he loves his sister, and she loves him.
It was evident how much when she visited him in the hospital.
I remember her bruises, and guilt washes over me.
I never said anything to Marcello, not that it was really my place to do so, but I sincerely hope Luciano did.
Suddenly, I look at her disappearance and Roberto's death in another light.
Did Marcello have him killed?
He's the type of man who would. If Roberto hurt his sister, I have no doubt Marcello would retaliate.
He wouldn't hesitate. The realization that the idea doesn't disturb me as much as it should…
startles me. But I've seen too many women rolled into the ER, bruised, broken, terrified.
I've held their hands. Stitched their wounds.
Whispered that they were safe now, even when we both knew it was a lie because the abuser sat right in the other room.
If I'm honest, during those moments, I've wished for someone to just… end it. To take the kind of man who does that and erase him from the world. But there's a huge difference between wishing it and doing it.
I'm a nurse. I work hard to keep life going. Not to take it.
Do I think abusive men should be punished? Yes. Do I think they'll ever really stop? That they'll change? Most of the time: no. They're like serial killers, only no one treats them that way until it's too late.
But eleven other people were killed too.
A cold shudder rolls through me. That part… that's harder to swallow. If Marcello ordered that, it wasn't just justice, it was a bloodbath.
And if it wasn't him?
Then it only proves what I already know: life in the mafia is dangerous. One wrong move, and people die.
If I gave it another shot with Marcello—assuming he'd even give me another chance—this would be the kind of life I'd commit myself to. And I know what that would do to my mom. That alone makes me want to reach for the basement door in my mind and slam it shut.
I almost do.
Instead, I pull out my phone and send a message to Luciano.
Me:
Any word from Sophia?
The reply is almost immediate.
Luciano:
Nothing.
I'm not na?ve enough to think that if Marcello had anything to do with Roberto's murder, Luciano would tell me.
But I'm sure he would have said something other than nothing.
I type and erase a few replies, because let me know if I can do anything, or hug Marcello for me, are all hollow and senseless. Instead, I type.
Me:
Please let me know if you hear anything
Luciano:
Will do
I wait for a few more seconds, but no three dots appear, and as much as I want to type something else, I force myself to put the phone down.