Chapter 3 – POSY
POSY
N evaeh Ellis lives in a dump. I thought I was roughing it before Dario moved me in, but this is a shithole. Elevator’s out of service. Narrow hallways with stained ceilings and warped tiles. I made the same salary she did at L’Alba. What does she do with her money?
I haul my suitcase up the last set of stairs and head for her apartment. As soon as I got off the subway, my panic ebbed. I’m hella more likely to be mugged in this part of town, but I’m a hundred times safer. The Renellis don’t bother with this neighborhood. There’s no vig on zero.
Still, I keep looking behind me. I’m not gonna stop until I’m far, far away.
I knock, sending up a short prayer. This is a hail Mary. Nevaeh instantly replied with her address when I texted her for it earlier, but I didn’t tell her what was going on. Once she hears, she very well might send me packing.
If she told Carlo that I’m visiting, and he knows what’s going on, I might be delivering myself to Renelli on a silver platter. I didn’t dare ask her not to tell Carlo, though. That would definitely make her leery. She’s not stupid, just flighty.
At first, there’s no sound, but then there’s a thump and a scramble and the door flies open.
“Posy Santoro!”
A small woman with big, bouncy black hair yanks me inside. She’s grinning, and her breath reeks of weed. She’s wearing joggers, a hot pink crop top, and socks with red pom poms on the heels.
“Oh, crap,” she says, stretching the vowel, her eyes rounding. “You’re in trouble.”
She peers into the hall and then slams the door shut.
“What did you hear?” I ask.
“Nothing, but I know that look.”
“What look?”
“Like shit hit the fan !” She drags me over to her futon, toeing aside dirty clothes and random debris strewn across the floor, and tugs me down beside her. Nevaeh’s not big on personal space. Or moderating her volume.
Dario is very insistent on both of those things, so naturally, he loathes her. Makes me like her even more now.
“What happened? Tell me everything. Did you and Dario break up? Did he cheat?” Nevaeh’s nose wrinkles. “Did you find the bodies? That dude must have one hell of a count.” She shudders. “No offense.”
My brain struggles to catch up. Nevaeh’s mouth operates on high speed. You have to listen quickly. “None taken.”
“I guess you need money.”
I flush, but she’s right. “He kicked me out.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.” I crane my neck and stare blindly above me for a second. What did I do? I trusted the wrong man. Again. “He thinks I cheated.”
Nevaeh snorts. “You don’t have a death wish.” There’s no doubt in her voice.
Hurt bubbles up through the fear and anger. Nevaeh doesn’t even know me that well, and she can see I’d never do something like that. I’m crazy for Dario—
Correction. I was crazy for Dario.
But even if I wasn’t—even if it was a casual thing with him—I don’t mess around. And I’m definitely not risking a relationship that’s going somewhere for sex. I mean, sex is okay. Better with Dario than most of the other guys I’ve been with, but I’m not gonna piss off a mobster for some strange.
“There’s a video,” I confess, screwing my eyes shut.
“Show me.”
I groan. “I don’t have it. Ask Carlo. Frankie Bianco airdropped it to everyone.”
“Revenge porn?”
“I guess.” This would be so embarrassing if it wasn’t Nevaeh. She’s a walking, talking no-judgment zone. “It’s me doing anal for the first time with my high school boyfriend.”
“Hot.” She thinks a second. “No, hold up. Not hot. Gross. Were you a minor?”
“I was eighteen. And I was in love.” I draw out the word, a bitter smile twisting my lips.
“Love makes you do stupid shit,” she sighs.
All I can do is nod in agreement.
“I mean, I’ve never shacked up with a psychopathic serial killer, but this one guy convinced me to join a spin class where they all talked like motivational posters and banged each other afterwards.”
“I—”
What?
“Dario’s not a serial killer.”
Well, not in the “bodies in a freezer” sense. He’s a bad man, but he—
No. Nope. Nuh-uh.
There’s no “but.” I’m not making one more excuse for that man. Eight months of telling people they’re wrong about him, he’s great once you get to know him, he’s introverted, that’s all—and he proves everyone right in five minutes.
He’s a heartless bastard. A cold, unfeeling jerk.
My eyes prickle.
“Oh, honey.” Nevaeh squeezes my hand. Her palm is sticky like from candy. That is so weird. “Did you take the jewelry?”
I shake my head as hot tears dribble down my cheeks. “He made me give him my watch and earrings back.”
“Oh, that’s brutal. I’m so sorry. Carolyn has such excellent taste.”
My brow wrinkles. “What do you mean, Carolyn?”
“Carolyn buys jewelry for all the guys. Even Renelli himself. She does everything. Remembers special occasions, books the trips, makes the dinner reservations.” Nevaeh blinks. “I thought everyone knew that.”
“Carolyn from L’Alba?” She’s a matronly woman who does payroll and the books. She fills in as hostess in a pinch. She’s on the phone a lot .
“Yeah. She got me a really nice tennis bracelet when Carlo fucked up and called me Angie in bed.”
A piece of the puzzle plinks into place.
Dario’s always seemed like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde to me.
There was the mad genius who only wants to fuck dirty and play board games, who never talks about his feelings or really laughs.
And then there’s the sweet guy who sends me a bouquet of posies and seasonal flowers on the sixth of every month, the anniversary of our first date.
The man who always makes sure my favorite snacks are stocked in the kitchen.
Who leaves the new releases from my favorite authors on my nightstand for me to find as a surprise.
Oh, Carolyn is good .
I should have seen it.
I know for a fact Dario doesn’t know my sign.
What are the odds he knows my birthday? He pours me red wine all the time even though I tell him every time it gives me migraines.
And yet the posies in the flower beds are my favorite pink and purple?
The jewelry? The shoes in my size and the clothes that fit as if they were tailored for my body?
A dozen casual conversations with Carolyn float through my mind.
That bastard has been Cyrano de Bergerac-ing me.
I swivel and collapse on the futon. “Holy shit.”
It’s like I pressed the lever at the end of Connect Four. Everything clatters out the bottom. I wasn’t in a relationship. I was in that movie where the guy finds out his life is a reality TV show.
Nevaeh winces. “Sorry if I ruined the romance.”
“Oh, no. Getting thrown out on my ass and having my life threatened did that.”
“Oh, man.” Nevaeh’s eyes pop, and she finally starts looking uneasy. “But Dario kicked you out. Don’t take this the wrong way, but if he was gonna kill you, you probably wouldn’t be here right now.”
“I’m not worried about Dario.” Much. I help her put the pieces together. “Dominic Renelli doesn’t like loose ends.”
Nevaeh’s gaze flies to her phone. It’s peeking out of a stack of magazines on a coffee table covered in rings. “Are they looking for you?”
“Probably.”
“You have to get out of here.” There’s an edge of panic in her voice. She gets it now.
“Yeah.” I wrestle my exhausted body upright. She bounds to her feet and roots in her purse. “I have thirty…seven bucks.” She shoves a wad in my hand.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“Just—you gotta go. This town is not that big. Posy, you in danger, girl.” She checks her phone. “Shit. There’s a text from Carlo.”
“What does it say?” I lean over to peer at the glowing screen. “What is that?”
“Eggplant emoji.” She huffs and rolls her eyes. “He thinks he’s cute. It means he wants to bone.”
“No mention of me?”
“Just dick veg.”
We exhale in unison.
“Nevaeh, I would never ask you this, but—”
“What do you need?” she interrupts. She’s right in my face, earnestly making eye contact, so close I can see every freckle on her nose. She’s such good people. I wish we’d had a chance to hang out more.
“I need your driver’s license. And you can’t ever tell anyone that you gave it to me. Say you lost it.”
“I’ve totally done that before.” She grins, and my lips curve in response.
“Here.” She hands me her card. “We look nothing alike.”
“I’ll dye my hair when I get where I’m going.” She’s older than me by seven years, shorter by three inches, and then there’s the mass of kinky curls.
“Maybe get a perm, too.” She fluffs my lank ponytail.
“I’ll only need this to rent a place. And maybe so I can get a job until I can find something under the table.”
“If I catch shit for it, I’ll claim you stole it.” She squeezes my shoulder.
I gnaw my lower lip, staring down at the little piece of plastic. “Are you sure?” I meet her eyes, hold her gaze.
A current of understanding passes between us. We both know the Renelli organization doesn’t play. And we’ve both been surfing a dangerous wave in a crazy world, just trying to steal a little joy before we get dashed on the rocks again.
Well-adjusted women with happy childhoods don’t fuck mobsters.
She knows the risk. She folds my fingers around the card. “Now can you get the hell out of my place before you bring the organization down on me, please?”
“I won’t forget this,” I swear.
“If Renelli ever catches you, please do.”
I laugh, ‘cause that’s all you can do, and I smack a kiss on her cheek as I head out the door.
Next stop—somewhere far, far away where they’ve never heard of Dominic Renelli, and I can pretend the bastard I fell in love with doesn’t even exist.
I’m starting to understand that maybe he never actually did.
* * *
I take the subway to the bus terminal downtown.
It’s bustling even though it’s almost eight at night.
I adjust my hoodie, making sure my hair is tucked away.
I’m not kidding myself. This disguise won’t hold up to any kind of scrutiny.
I served Renelli’s men for years at L’Alba besides dating my way through a decent portion of the crew. They know me well.