Page 6 of Mine to Love
“What if I could help you?” Gio stands, joining me. “The position I’m looking to fill would offer you everything you’re asking for—a safe place to live, and the pay is $500 per day, which is $15,000 a month.”
His statement has my head snapping back in his direction. Though, I’m sure there’s a catch. “$15,000 a month? For what? What kind of job could I possibly qualify for that pays that muchandincludes somewhere to stay?” Eyes wide and mouth agape, I wait for his response. For once, Gio is the one to hesitate.
Finally, he says, “It’s for a live-in housekeeper position—cooking, cleaning, caring for the home, running my personal errands, things such as that.”
“Yourpersonal errands? You want me—us—to live with you, take care of you?” At that, I shake my head as a familiar sense of defeat creeps in. “And what else is required? Because it sounds like what you really want is a wife and there’s one key domestic duty you’ve left off.”
At that, Gio’s brows crinkle. “Darcy, I’m not— I would be completely professional. Everything would be legitimate. This isn’t a ruse. This is a very real job and one I’ve been struggling to fill.”
Part of me doesn’t believe him and that part hurts—the part of me who’s been sexualized as long as I can remember. I was heavier, so I matured earlier. By nine, I was wearing my first bra. By ten, I’d gotten my first period. While my development was completely natural, the interest it drew from older men was scarring. Those scars ripped open when I realized how wrong Clive was for making me a bride at eighteen. Now, Gio’s words pick at them as I note he only became interested in me afterthe bartender pointed out my breasts and suggested I’m used to entertaining men.
Then, there’s another part of me that does believe him, that knows he could never dream of having sex with me or loving me because I’m so… I shake my head, unwilling to degrade myself as others have. But that’s just it. I have been degraded, bullied, made to feel insecure all my life. While the kids at school called mefat, my dad’s friends and other creeps called mesexy. I was just a kid. All of this made me more susceptible to Clive and then, he became my biggest bully. Somehow that part hurts me more because it makes me feel—Gio’smade me feel—the same way Clive did: never good enough to love or be cared for; only good enough to serve and care for others.
With his offer, any respect he may have shown me, kindness even, feels tainted. What Gio—Mr. Moretti—is offering doesn’t sound at all like the freedom I’ve fought so hard for. No matter the money, it sounds like another prison, and I won’t fall for it. “Respectfully, I decline.” With that, I move to get Delilah.
“Darcy, please,” Gio says then. He moves around the table and reaches me as I gather Delilah and move toward the exit. “Darcy,” he says once more. Reaching out, he grabs my arm to stop me from leaving. His touch is gentle, but it doesn’t matter. I instantly freeze and pinch my eyes closed. I can feel the panic inching through my veins. My legs tremble, and my bladder feels as if it may burst.
“Please,” I whisper, my eyes still pressed tightly together. “Let me go.” Upon request, Gio removes his hand. I take a few deep breaths to collect myself before opening my eyes. The second I do I focus them on the doorway at the end of the dining room and march toward it with the same intensity I did the day I left Clive.
6
I sitwith a blank expression behind the wheel of my black Dodge Challenger. It’s quiet, save for the splatter of raindrops on the windshield. And amidst the remains of a recently destroyed warehouse, it’s completely dark. The nearest lights come from floating ships along the Mississippi. Though, they serve no purpose except to remind me I’m still here instead of somewhere deep in my mind or the personal cell surely waiting for me in Hell. No, I suppose the only devil present tonight is me as I wait for my special delivery.
The Devil and the angel—perhaps it’s best Darcy left when she did. I mean, what was I thinking? A mother and child living with me? I saw her as a welcome light. But what would I have been to her? What darkness would I have introduced her to? And yet she captivated me in a way that makes little sense. I’m a man of logic, not emotion. At least, typically. And so, I try to find my way back to him, back to myself.
I lower my head and grip the wheel as if it may absorb the many thoughts running through my mind—my affections and curiosity for the woman I barely know, as well as my longing for her. I tell myself that I’m bored or desperate. Tired of searchingfor a housekeeper, I fixated on her. But I know it’s a lie. She’s different, an enigma. And while her leaving without accepting my offer leaves me with the same dilemma I woke with, it also presents a new one. How will anyone compare to her? The simple fact is they won’t. Every day I wake to someone else in my home will be a reminder of her—Darcy.
“Fuck!” I curse. Releasing the steering wheel, I inhale deeply and sink back in my seat. The echo of her name inside my being forces her to the forefront of my mind, as if I’ve been able to think of anything else since I first laid eyes on her.
I picture her long, wavy blonde hair, and crystal blue eyes. I try to remember every detail of her sweet scent and shy smile. I close my eyes and replay the moments of attentiveness between her and Delilah, the delicate way Darcy chews her food, even the way her body moves when she walks. A small smile tugs at my lips until the memory of her leaving me at Broussard’s plays behind my closed eyelids.
That walk, unlike the others, brought me no pleasure. All it did was leave me feeling empty and full of questions. My questions begin with the mark on her back and end with the tension that consumes her every time I get too close or look at her a bit too long. She’s scared, uncomfortable, intimidated, cautious. And, while perhaps I do elicit those emotions from her, I know I’m not the cause of them. Someone has made her this way. Someone hurt her, presumably herex-husband. And I’d love nothing more than to be meeting him tonight rather than the punk bartender who insulted her. Though, for now, he’ll have to do.
It’s then that my phone vibrates, forcing my eyes open just as two headlights appear. I glance at the text from Zane, one of my top soldiers still loyal despite the abolition of Amato rule. As he and his twin brother, Xander, pull their SUV to a stop, I undo the third button of my black dress shirt and roll up my sleeves to myelbows. Next, I put on my black leather gloves and Mexican skull mask, otherwise known as a Calaca. Since this is personal rather than a Mafia related matter, it’s both fitting and functional to wear, as I’m both Italian and MexicanandI haven’t yet decided if this asshole is worth one of my bullets. Still, I grab my gun from the passenger seat, place it in my hip holster, and take a deep breath.
Somewhere in the symphony of raindrops, I find it—the sound of my beating heart. It’s what keeps me focused during times like this. It’s what fills my head instead of my victim’s screams or the sounds of bullets ripping through the air. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane, given the horror I’ve both witnessed and caused—a dissociative measure that enables me to get the job done. Because whether it be a warning, a war, or an execution, the same principle applies—never give in to emotions. Emotions—fear, rage, and despair—get you killed or worse. And, while tonight is no comparison to my darkest day, I still find a sense of calm in old habits.
As Zane and Xander, who also wear masks, drag the bartender from the backseat of the SUV and force him onto his knees, I open my car door and step out into the darkness, both literally and metaphorically. As I walk toward my prey, raindrops seep through my clothes, soaking my skin. It’s a pleasant reprieve from the August heat, though thoughts of the temperature make me think of Darcy.
The way she walked into the bar dripping in sweat, the red marks on her shoulders from carrying her packs, her simple request for a drink this asshole denied. And what of her now? Those packs weren’t typical backpacks. They were heavy enough to contain the belongings of two people who left somewhere without plans to return. And, if she was still carrying them, then that means she didn’t have anywhere to leave them. She doesn’thave anywhere to stay tonight, does she? And now it’s raining and…and?—
As I reach Zane, Xander, and the man too cowardly to look me in the eye, my focus is gone. The sound of my heartbeat gives way to the constant thumping of the rain. My mind fixates on nothing but Darcy. And, suddenly, all my frustration from earlier is amplified by fearful thoughts of where she and Delilah are nowandall the things that could happen to them on the dangerous streets of New Orleans.
Both angry at myself and the man before me, I ball my fists and throw the first punch. Then another and another. Zane and Xander take several steps back to give us some much-needed space.
“Why? Why is this happening? What did I do? Who are you?” I’m not sure how much time passes or how many punches I throw before the bartender finally speaks. All I know is he is beaten, bloody, and missing at least two teeth.
“If you have to ask that, then you clearly haven’t learned your lesson,” I say. It’s then that I bend down and pick him up by the collar of his white t-shirt. I pull him up onto his knees just so I can knock him down again. As I do, I imagine how Darcy must’ve felt knocked down by his rude remarks. I remember her defeated expression and heavy sigh as he implied hurtful things merely because of the way her dress hugged her body so perfectly. I bite the inside of my cheek as the memories have me reaching for my gun.
“What lesson?” The man chokes, but I ignore him as rage pulses through my veins like a drug. It’s with a heavy hand I unholster my weapon. With it dangling at my side, I notice Zane and Xander exchange a look, though neither of them speak. For one, they know better. Second, Zane is the hot head of the bunch, and he never shies away from violence. He’s like Damon in that way. And Xander, well, he’s more level-headed like me.He knows if I pull my weapon, it’s for a damn good reason. Although, as my finger inches closer to the trigger, I question myself. Emotions will get the best of you if you let them.
Perhaps he’s had enough. Darcy is more important than revenge. I need to find her. I need to make sure she’s okay. And, whether or not she wants my help, I’m not takingnofor an answer.
As visions of her alone and afraid come to me, I find new focus in the fearful expression of her light blue eyes. It’s then that I pinch my own eyes closed and take a deep breath.
Just as I center myself and move to re-holster my weapon, the coward finally looks up at me from his place amidst the rain-filled puddles. My shining silver gun still dangling at my side draws his attention like a spotlight. It awakens him to the gravity of the situation, to his fragile mortality.
“Please,” he begs. He must utter the word fifty times in a mere matter of seconds as he pushes himself up onto his knees. Hands clasped in front of him, he pleads for his life, and I let him. Fear will humble him and perhaps that will be lesson enough. “Whoever you are, you’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t owe anyone money. I don’t do drugs. I don’t even know anyone like you.”
