A subtle blush ran up her neck, and she cleared her throat. “And when disorder comes into your life?”
A vision of thick hair—sometimes dark, sometimes blond—smooth olive skin, bare feet, and everything forbidden flashed before my eyes.
The fire in my chest burned hotter, stealing my goddamn breath. Where pain usually hit me like the high of a drug, whenever Gianna Russo—or, sorry, now Marino—was involved, it felt like the comedown. Nauseating. It felt fucking bitter.
My response held the slightest clench of my teeth. “I fix it.” Standing, I buttoned my jacket and headed to the door.
“But what if it’s not fixable?” she pushed, jumping to her feet, my file in a loose grip by her side.
I paused with one hand on the doorknob and glanced at my wrist, at the elastic tie hidden beneath my cuff.
A sardonic feeling pulled in my chest.
“That, Sasha, is when I obsess.”
21 years old
December 2012
I’D FOUND BLISS IN A rolled-up dollar bill and white powder.
Sometimes, it was euphoric—blood-pumping, heart-racing, top-of-the-world euphoria. Like sex, without the emptiness.
Sometimes, it was a means to an end. One line, and every insecurity, every bruise, faded to memory. One line, and I’d be free.
Other times, it was a cold draft of air and the squeak of a steel door as it slammed shut before me.
The echo resounded off the cell walls and into my ears like pinballs. I swallowed as the deadlock bolted into place.
Stepping forward, I gripped the bars. “Surely I get a phone call?”
The twentysomething Latina officer rested her hands on her gun belt, and, with dark brows lowered, looked me over from my head to my toes. “You’re out of luck, princess. If I have to look at that monstrosity of a dress”—she nodded toward my red and gorgeously lacy McQueen—“for another minute, I’ll have a headache for the rest of my shift.”
I tried to bite my tongue but failed. “Blame it on my dress all you like—we both know the ache will be from that spinster bun on the back of your head, cogliona.”
Gaze narrowed, she took a step toward me. “What did you just call me?”
“Woah,” interrupted another female officer, putting a hand on her partner’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Martinez.”
Twentysomething’s glare intensified before she stalked off, her partner following behind.
I turned around to pace but stopped short when I saw I wasn’t alone. A redheaded prostitute past her prime sat in the corner, watching me through mascara-caked eyelashes. Her foundation was a few shades darker than her pale skin tone, and her fishnet tights were covered in holes.
“They didn’t take your shoes.”
I glanced at my red Jimmy Choos.
“They’re real nice,” she said, picking at her nail polish.
My gaze fell to her bare feet, and I sighed, dropping to sit on the bench adjacent from her.
They hadn’t taken my shoes because I wouldn’t remain here for long. I was sure I had only minutes until a head honcho in an ill-fitting suit escorted me to somewhere with a couch and coffee—somewhere comfortable, so I would feel more open to gush all the Cosa Nostra’s secrets.
Disgrace.
Worthless.
Unlovable.