My Tragic Mafia Life | ✔️

72

In the frame of a bed, Josephine sunk deeper into the covers, displeased at the slur of noises coming from the halls of Dante's apartment. They were arguing. Him and Beatriz. For quite some time.

She would have once mused at the state of affairs. To see Beatriz, loyal Beatriz, argue with him was as rare as a vein of water in the middle of a desert. But she was no longer friends with Beatriz. Or any of the others. So her curiosity was cut short. Like her sleep.

Ten more minutes until she had enough, rising to her feet.

She paid no attention to Dante's bedroom, merely putting back on what she had taken off. It had been weeks since she last spoke to Houston, knowing of his... situation. But not as many as speaking to Isla. Somehow, in the good of her heart, Isla found a way to greet her as if the distance in their relationship was never there. It was even harder to try to break, just because Isla kept trying to mend it back. Dante didn't do anything to stop Josephine from paving away, though he knew she wanted to. He didn't like her to be so cleaved from the rest of them, but it wasn't his choice.

Josephine could feel herself starting to grow distant from this relationship. Not because she didn't care for Dante, he had already won her over by now, but because she knew she needed to end things. Soon. But she had grown fond of him—comfortable. That was what made everything worse.

Dante had won her heart, but it was a bitter victory. At some point, Josephine realized that she couldn't just forget who he was. She didn't want to be with a mobster, she wanted to be with Dante.

But she could only have both.

He held her heart, but not her mind. In a sense, she was chained to him. Who was it she sought for comfort? For a laugh? For a distraction? It was always him.

It was hard to keep her mind filled with clarity when her heart always threatened to drown it in pain. She needed to be realistic. He was the Valencio heir, bound to his fate as a leader. The entire ordeal with Viola and their marriage... it wasn't going to go away. She was the other woman in this relationship, though Dante denied it. Always.

Josephine felt a curdle of emotions on each side of her mind. For days she told herself she would end it. But time slipped from her wits and every promise was made in the past, never to become whole.

That was why she came here in the first place. Josephine leered at the early morning. Last night, she corrected herself.

Like usual, she miscalculated and found the fullness of her chest refusing to be hollow again. It was terrible, and the longer she waits, the greater the despair. She had to do something about it.

It was hard enough lying to herself that everything was fine, but even harder telling it to Dante.

On bare feet, she tiptoed out of his bedroom. Maybe a part of her did want to know what was going on to hear Beatriz so riled like this, but the slamming of the bedroom door behind was enough for the fighting to stop. They had heard.

Defeated, she didn't bother to hide her footsteps. Beatriz was leaning against an oak table, in between a clutter of misshapen chairs, one clothed with a leather jacket. It was probably hers. She looked more flustered than Josephine had ever seen. Dante was with his back against her, leaning over the table with his hands gripping the edge. They both looked unnerved.

Dante loosened when he saw Josephine, going to his pin-straight posture. "How are you?"

"Good," She said, shifting around Beatriz to a nearby cabinet full of glasses. She could feel the stiff tension despite the thrumming silence. The glass was in her hand, but the fridge was behind Dante. Great.