That was, until I woke up in the middle of the night to noises on the first floor, a few weeks later. Grabbing my gun from the safe—the first thing I secured the minute I was out of my father’s reach—I rushed downstairs only to find Joey digging through a cupboard in the kitchen.
When I asked what he was doing, he banged his head on a shelf, cursing before whipping around with wide eyes. His gaze landed on the gun in my hand, and for a split second, I saw the mask slip. The Joey I knew would have been appalled to discover I owned such a weapon. But the one staring back at me eyed the sleek black metal with a hungry gaze like he was calculating how to get his hands on it.
He was quick to school his features, selling me some story about how he came downstairs for a late-night snack and offering me a glass of water. Wary, but not wanting him to realize I was becoming suspicious, I threw on a smile and gratefully accepted the thoughtful gesture. It took everything in my power not to view him with a critical eye as I let the cool liquid slide down my throat. When I went to wash the glass, Joey took it from my hands, telling me he would take care of it for me and to go back to bed; he’d be right behind me.
That one glass of water led to me uncovering the depth of his deception.
The very next day, I got home from work and went to deposit my tips into my safe. Cash was king—especially if you were forced to run—but I didn’t like leaving large sums of it lying around, so I always locked it up along with my gun.
I pressed my fingertips against the scanning mechanism, the gears worked as it unlocked, and the heavy door swung open. My heart stopped beating when I saw the entire thing was empty. Not only was all my money gone, but so was my gun.
Panic stole over me, and I stumbled back onto my ass inside my closet, trying desperately to breathe. A lifetime of shady family dealings had me figuring out what happened in record time. Joey had lifted my prints off the glass from the night before and used them to unlock my safe.
That motherfucker had stolen from the wrong girl.
It took every ounce of my self-restraint not to choke the life out of Joey when he’d waltzed in the door later that evening like nothing was wrong. I threw on a smile and made him dinner. I tried not to vomit when he put the moves on me and suggested we have sex. I gave him the vocal performance of a lifetime as he grunted on top of me, making him believe that he was a sex god and no one could ever please me like he did—spoiler alert: I wasn’t a huge fan of sex in general and had never particularly enjoyed it.
In the morning, I pretended to be asleep when he got up for work. The minute the front door latched, I was moving. Throwing on clothes and shoes in record time, I peeked through the bedroom window, watching as he pulled out of the driveway. Rushing down the stairs, I jumped into my car and followed, mindful of keeping enough distance so he wouldn’t notice.
Confusion edged out my anger when he stopped at a local high school. But then I watched him get out of his truck, a backpack slung over one shoulder, as he approached a group of teens hanging out near a shaded alcove on campus. Squinting, I sawthe exchange happen—a tiny baggy of white powder for a wad of cash.
And I saw red.
I wasn’t about to sit there and pretend like my family wasn’t into some shady illegal shit—because they sure as hell were—but drugs were where I’d always drawn the line. Drugs ruined lives, ruined families, and I wouldn’t stand for it.
The day Uncle Dominic died, I sat down with my brother, Enzo, and my two cousins, Matteo and Gio, and told them if theyeverdecided to venture into drug distribution now that they were running the show, I would flip on them so fast their heads would spin. They’d be locked up for life if I had anything to say about it, family or not.
Joey might not be those three men I was related to, but I was about to make good on that promise.
Pulling out my cell, I’d dialed the local police department, tipping them off that there was a man selling drugs to kids. I gave them the exact location, Joey’s name and physical description, as well as an account of how I’d discovered he had broken into my safe and stolen my very legally registered handgun. If he was going to be arrested and found with my weapon, I was going to ensure I didn’t go down with him.
Thankfully, a patrol car was nearby, and within minutes, I had the pleasure of watching Joey being cuffed and thrown into the back of a police cruiser.
The irony was not lost on me that in trying to escape the life of crime I’d been born into, the first guy to pique my interest since leaving all that behind was just like the ones I’d grown up with. Only, he wasn’t the big man in charge of organizing the entire operation. No, he was nothing more than a low-level grunt pushing drugs to kids.
Fucking pathetic.
But the best part of it all? When that asshole had the fucking nerve to call me up from jail, begging me to bail him out, selling some story about how it was all a big misunderstanding, I got to tell him that I hoped he became someone’s bitch on the inside. Because that’s what he deserved.
The stunned silence on the other end of the line had been extremely satisfying. That was, until I realized I was fucking broke because he’d taken all the cash I had been stashing for months.
So now, I was working my ass off, just trying to pay my mortgage and surviving on my shift meal at the bar, which was why I couldn’t afford to be late or miss my shift today. Any reduction in hours—while I dug out of the financial hole Joey had thrown me into—could be the difference in keeping the lights on this month.
I didn’t need to look down at the paper ticket in my hand; the number seventy-three printed on it had been memorized hours ago. Eyeing the electronic board, it had been stuck at seventy-two for what felt like an eternity.
Cautiously optimistic, I pulled out my cell and texted Benny, my manager. Told him I would be there soon, offering anything short of sexual favors if he didn’t cut my hours because I was late this one time. His reply was instant, letting me know I would be cleaning the bathrooms for the foreseeable future and that I would owe Rachel half my tips for the rest of the day because she’d have to cover my ass. It was a small price to pay if it meant I could keep my hours, so I heaved a sigh of relief.
That damn seventy-two was still taunting me, and the longer I stared at those red digital numbers, the more I feared they’d be burned into my retinas.
Blinking, I tore my gaze away, deciding it was like a watched pot. If I stopped watching, maybe the numbers would change, and it would finally be my turn.
A girl could hope.
Training my eyes on the glass door entry to the DMV, people-watching became my new method of passing the time. It was almost cathartic, watching as they entered, optimism reflected in their expressions, until they pulled that paper ticket, checked the screen, and realized that hope didn’t belong here—that this place would suck the life right out of them if given enough time.
The glass door opened once again, and the first thing I noticed was that the man had to duck to enter. At five-eleven myself, I was used to being at eye level with most men, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to crane my neck to meet his gaze.
The next thing I noticed was his hair. Sandy-blond, it hung down around his face, reaching the level of his chiseled jaw. It was far too long for any self-respecting man. My nose wrinkled at the idea of him tying it up into one of those despicable man buns.
