Mafia Obsession

Scarlet

I sit on the edge of my bed, looking over at my phone, charging on the floor. The battery died when I was at the restaurant, mid-conversation with Elio. I shouldn’t be speaking with him, anyway, especially if the crazy hunch I have is true, and he was eating dinner with the loan shark-all smiling, sharing champagne, toasting to some criminal success.

It’s the middle of the night. I’ve worked over twelve hours. I should be tired enough to close my eyes and sink into welcome oblivion, but I can’t even think about sleep while knowing that Elio might’ve texted me. There’s also the fact that any second, somebody could kick down the door, charge in here, and hurt me to make me pay.

My phone is old and busted. The charging symbol takes forever to come on. Every time it dies, I wonder if this will be the last time. I use all my restaurant money for rent and household expenses. Buying a new phone isn’t something I planned for. I almost laugh. How can I pay forty thousand if I can’t afford a new phone?

Finally, the screen blinks awake. I spring out of bed way too fast, way too eagerly. I need to control some of this hunger. It’s not wise for a person like me, with basically no experience, to rush headfirst into this, whatever this is. The best-case scenario is that he’s a Good Samaritan who wants to help me, and that’s all. He’s not going to want me in the sudden, captivating way I want him.

His final text is asking to put protection on my house. I sit cross-legged on the floor near the socket. There’s one next to my bed, too, but it’s busted, like half the stuff in this place. I bite my lip, wondering if he’s awake. It’s almost four a. m.

But that would mean giving you my address, I text.

A reflexive smile spreads across my face when he begins to type a message in response almost immediately. A stranger’s text shouldn’t be able to light me up like this-a stranger who also happens to be a mob boss. It shouldn’t make me feel so sure he’s the man for me. It’s a text. I’ve been through too much to be so naive.

We’ve been over this. I could get your address from the loan shark if we were working together, which we’re not. Just let me help you.

Why do you care about helping me so much? I reply.

As he types his response, I imagine him telling me it’s because he felt it, too. It wasn’t all in my head. A lightning bolt crashed into our lives the moment we laid eyes on each other. It electrified us. It connected us. It created something truly special between us.

Because it’s the right thing to do.

I shake my head. Please, Elio. I probably seem like a kid to you, but I’m not an idiot.

You don’t seem like a kid to me. You’re a nineteen-year-old woman. It sounds like you’ve been through a lot. I don’t think you’re naive, but it’s the truth. Helping you is the right thing to do; occasionally, even men like me need to do that.

So you’re just a Good Samaritan? Is that it?

Those three dots appear, disappear, and appear again. I torture myself by imagining all the things he could be typing, all the declarations of heat and possession.

Have you spoken to your mom about this? he asks. You said you were going to do that before you decided.

She was passed out when I got home.

Then wake her the hell up. I imagine his huge body trembling as he types this. This is important.

I know, but when she’s taken her meds, there’s no point waking her up anyway. She’ll be too groggy to understand what’s going on.

What about your dad? Have you heard from him?

I sigh, my chest getting tight as it often does when I think about what sort of father-daughter relationship other people might have. No, and I don’t think I will. When he vanishes, he never contacts us. He just comes home when he feels like it. Mom takes him back, like always. To be honest, I don’t think Dad even cares about me.

Oh, jeez. I’ve already clicked send. Something about texting with him tears all my walls down, but I have to try to keep them up. I have to use my head, not my heart.

Why do you say that? he asks.

It’s too late now, and truthfully, I want to talk with him about this, even if it makes no sense. He’s never really shown me any love. I always get the feeling he didn’t want kids. I can’t remember him showing me any affection or support, even when I was little.

That’s goddamn unacceptable, Elio texts. A man should love and support his daughter.

Something thuds into me, a heavy fist of emotion. I didn’t even think about the very likely possibility that Elio might already have a girlfriend, a wife, and kids. Do you have children?

No, he replies. But I value family. It’s the most important thing. If I ever had a daughter, I’d be there for her. Always.

Closing my eyes, I caution myself to slow down. I shouldn’t let his words trigger a torrent of fantasy inside me. I shouldn’t think about the first time.

Elio holds our daughter, the love beaming from him, the look he’ll give me, both of us sharing in the perfection of the moment.

But we’re getting off topic, he goes on. You’re in danger, Scarlet. Right now. Being in the same apartment where that lowlife visited puts you at risk. I swear to you-I swear on my little brother, on my sick father, on my mother-I’m going to protect you. I’m not going to betray you. Please, trust me.

I bite down, knowing this could be a mistake, but also, he’s right, isn’t he? If they were working together, he could find me. Surely, a man like Elio has ways of finding this information anyway. Deep inside, something pulses. If I wanted to dance down Crazy Street, I’d think it was my womb, as if my fierce desire for a family with him is making me trust him.

Yeah, that’s nuts, but so is this. I’m typing out my address. I stop several times and try to drum some sense into myself. I keep going, on and on, until the full address is typed out. Hovering my thumb over the send button, I try to convince myself one last time.

I don’t know this man. He’s a stranger. He’s a criminal. He could’ve lied about everything he’s said so far. So what if he swore on his family? These are just words. People can say anything they want, and yet I click send anyway.

Thank you, he replies. I’m going to be there soon. Wait… YOU’RE going to keep watch?

For tonight. I can’t sleep anyway. Then we’ll figure out a long-term strategy. I still think trapping this bastard is the way to go.

But what if he sees you outside my apartment building? Won’t he know something’s up?

Yeah, that’s a good point. It would be easier if I were inside the apartment.

My heart starts drumming way too hard. The idea of him in here with me…

My mom would freak if she found a random man sleeping on the couch.

Who said I’d be on the couch? he replies, causing a shiver to dance over my body. I can take the floor in your bedroom. Then you can explain the situation to her in the morning.

It kind of already is morning.

Whenever she wakes up, then. I wouldn’t forgive myself if that bastard came to you tonight, and I could’ve stopped it.

Stuff like this is happening all over the city, I reply. Every single day.

But I can do something about this. Stop arguing with me. I’m coming over now. I’ll text you when I’m outside.

I stand, looking around my bedroom at my old, chipped karaoke set in the corner, the flaking wallpaper, the carpet with stains at the edges. I’ve gotten used to this dreary, depressing scene, and it’s not like I’ve ever had boys over before. Not that Elio is a boy.

I almost text him to tell him not to come, but he already has my address. If he’s going to hurt me… Have I made a serious mistake? Quietly walking into the kitchen, I take a knife from the cupboard, wondering if I’d have the guts to use it.

About twenty minutes later, I get a text. I’m outside your apartment door. The main entrance was open. Come and let me in.

Elio

As I wait outside her apartment, I remind myself I’m here to do a job, to protect my woman. I’m not here to bring my fantasy to life. My manhood is getting hard already, though. I only drained the goddamn pipes an hour ago, but I feel hungry for her.

The door opens, whining on the hinges. I almost grab her when I see her nipples poking through her pink pajama shirt. Her hair is messy around her shoulders, giving her a wild, sexy look. My fingers twitch, willing my hands to reach up, play with her nipples, and make her moan for me.NôvelDrama.Org © content.

She raises a shaky hand, showing me her phone. We have to be quiet. Mom is sleeping.

I nod, following her into the apartment. God, this place is grim. Scarlet deserves so much better. Everything is old. The walls seem thin, somehow. I’m unsure how I know that just by looking at them, but I do. They have a flimsy, papery look. Everything looks like it’s on the verge of breaking.

She walks ahead of me, giving me a look at her thick, sweet ass. Again, my hands shake, willing me to grab her. Massage that ass. Spank her thickness. Make her cream and shake for me.

She leads me into her bedroom. Her bedframe is wooden and chipped, the wallpaper flaking. She has a small bookshelf with a few books about singing on it.

“Are you a-”

She turns, glares at me, and raises her finger to her lips. She has no idea how cute and beautiful she looks doing that. She has no idea how wild she’d make me if she started to suck her finger, aiming those wide, innocent eyes at me. Being here with her, in person, makes me realize how foolish I was, thinking I could let her go.

She quickly types something on her phone and shows me the screen. We can’t talk. The walls are too thin. Mom can’t know you’re here until I’ve explained everything.

I nod, taking out my phone. Get some rest. If we need to speak, we can text.

Where will you go? she asks.

I smirk, sitting on the floor and stretching my legs out. In a low whisper, I say, “Never been more comfortable.”

A beautiful smile lights up her face. Then she holds her finger to her lips again. I watch obsessively as she walks to the bed, swaying side to side, her plump ass almost making me howl.

She climbs under the sheets. A moment later, my phone vibrates. I’ve got to say, Elio, this is probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.

I chuckle quietly. She laughs just as quietly, as if hearing me laugh is enough to make her feel joy, too. This small moment, shared laughter, is more significant than anything I’ve ever shared with any other woman.

Inviting a forty-two-year-old man to sleep on your floor? I type. There’s nothing weird about that.

You’re forty-two?! I thought you were in your mid-thirties at the oldest.

Darkness tries to touch me when I read her message. Maybe she thinks I’m too old for her. Or perhaps this has nothing to do with lust or attraction or, the most ridiculous of all, love. I’ve never felt romantic love. I never thought I would. All that matters is the Family. Yet here I am.

I’m an old, old man.