Page 12 of The Mafia's Bride
Taking a swig, she gulps three big times, sparkling wine dripping from the corners of her mouth, before handing it to me. The crisp bubbles pop on my tongue, chasing away Danica’s sweet taste and leaving behind a slow buzz.
When we’ve had our fill, passing the bottle a few times, we push our way back onto the dance floor. My sequin red designer dress reflects the above lights, sparkles dancing over my hair and legs. I start to sway, following the crowd in beat and steps. One step this way, a twirl, my hands hold up high, body slowly unraveling to the thumps of a beat I don’t recognize.
Immediately, hands start pulling and touching, and I follow their demands. The touches are kind, soft. I can almost forget what waits for me outside this gyrating dance floor, and I let the buzz cloud my head, numbness forgotten.
Danica appears in front of me, lips trailing between the valley of my breasts, higher still to my neck. I let her, enjoying the touch, enjoying the trickle of warmth that dips down lower. The bodiesaround us push closer, our hips meshing, delicious sparks of desire igniting at the simple caress.
Danica’s fingers dip—dangerously close to where I’m growing damp with need, the urge to escape reality drawing my desire higher. I don’t want Danica, per say, but she’s here and willing, someone who can fight back the melancholy and ease the loneliness. Someone who I can use—like I use all my other partners.
She reaches under the short hem of my dress, fingernails raking against my sensitive thighs. I can’t stop the gasp of pain, eyes flying open, even as she chastely pecks my lips.
“I’m so happy you called tonight,” she murmurs, hands grabbing my ass and pulling me forward. The friction is nice, a pleasant rubbing that has my mouth twisting, tension easing from my shoulders. I know this dance. The push and pull, how Danica knows exactly where to grab and hold me.
It’s been weeks since we’ve done anything, but she still remembers, and that’s all I need to escape my shit.
“You’ve always been the best, worst mistake,” I say against her lips. “Even when I know you shouldn’t be my first call, you are.” Sticky lip gloss spreads between us like a physical line, breaking the lust-haze just slightly.
She smirks, hand sliding down my front. “But you always call me.” But instead of going further, she opens her mouth.
A small, bright pink pill sits there, waiting like an invitation.
Smiling, I nod. I know what this is. Danica is as much an addict to drugs as I am to attention. She always finds the dealer in the clubs and always brings me along with her.
It’s a toxic ride, what we have. Two party girls with demons who won’t talk about it, but we’re getting high to avoid them.
Carefully, I open my mouth, her tongue darting to tangle with mine. The pill follows, dissolving between our lips with no more than a flicker of acknowledge. She pulls away, turning to face the crowd, limbs mixing with another guy nearby. He spins her, disappearing into the group while I’m left in the middle, alone.
I don’t let those thoughts take me—I can’t. Not when the drugactivates right away, a pleasant euphoria erupting through my chest and spreading out to my arms and hands. My mind muddles, and I smile, a weightlessness following in its wake.
I lift up my hands, amazed at how light they feel. And beyond that, my eyes catch the pulsating red lights that turn and blink overhead. It looks like a beating heart, matching the rhythm in my head.
Slowly, my head tilts back and that grin grows, and I’m swallowed up by the swaying bodies, the buzz growing so loudly between my ears that nothing else matters anymore.
5
LEX
He’s hunched at an unusual angle, head hanging over his chest, the dripping of blood falling to my clean hardwood floors with a steady pitter-patter.
Cleaning my hands, I grab my my gleaming silver pistol from my desk. The two soldiers at my back don’t flinch, silent statues, witnesses to what I have to do.
After years in the De Luca organization, taking a life barely registers past a moment of irritation due to the cleanup.
I release the manual safety, lifting the barrel to the informant’s head. I dig it there, enjoying his small wince. If I didn’t need his information, he would have been dead before the doors opened.
“Anything else to add?” I ask, Italian thick and rich on my tongue. It’s not often I get to speak it, having learned a long time ago Americans don’t respond well to those of different backgrounds. Over the years, I’ve learned to dull my accent.
Another way to assimilate into this world. Another thing I needed to get rid of in order to fit in.
The man spits on the ground in defiance.
“Fine.” I nod once.
Two bullets release, right into his temple.
The kickback from the gun barely moves in my strong grip and the body careens further. Splatter of red sprays from his head, coating the wall behind him as the puddle grows under his chair.
I don’t pause to give the body another look, taking out the rag from my pocket and wiping my gun from the debris. The soldiers come closer, one holding a plastic body bag, the other stoic man holding cleaning products. I don’t even know their names. Not like I care.
