Vengeance: DARK MAFIA ROMANCE

One

NATALIA

"Please, no," I whisper. I touch my Ventra transit card to the scanner again, envying the people rushing through the turnstiles on either side of me. The machine beeps angrily and flashes a red light. The jerks in line behind me start to mutter and clear their throats pointedly. Why me?

"Dammit!" Of course I know why me. It isn't some kind of cosmic mystery. Not putting money on your transit card tends to have this effect. But I can't walk home. My legs are on fire from ten hours at the diner, and my spirit is broken from yet another meeting with my pervy boss. He practically licked his lips as he informed me that he had no choice but to cut my hours. Then the asshole gave me a nice, long hug.

No, the cut didn't have anything to do with my performance, and no, the business wasn't suffering. Layoffs, cut hours, failed interviews, it's old news at this point. The universe is flushing me down the garbage disposal, and I don't know why I'm trying so hard to climb back out.

I jam myself into the turnstile, twisting in my tight retro-green uniform to lift my leg over the barrier. Someone coughs pointedly, and I look straight into the eyes of a security guard standing on the other side of the barrier, his arms crossed. If I was Celeste, I would grin at him and hop right over, waggling my ass to give him a show as I skip off. But I am so not Celeste. My cheeks burn and tears pool in my eyes as I struggle backwards off the turnstile and shove my way back through the crowd.

Hair blowing in every direction in a wind that smells of piss and fried fish, I limp down the sidewalk. I change my chunky black heels for some battered sneakers, but my feet are still screaming. The hour of walking gives me plenty of time to calculate the exactly zero amount of my cosmetology school loans I will be able to pay off this month. In addition to the zero real food I'll be able to eat, and the zero house I will have when I can't pay rent.

Murky grey twilight sinks over the sky, and all the shops turn on their lights. When I'm not hurrying down a sketchy street, I stop and stare into clothing shops and hair salons. Beautiful, stick-thin women in tight dresses and trendy slacks talk and laugh, best friends forever, oozing success from every pore. A chic little leather jacket pulls me into the entry of an adorable boutique. I just want to close my eyes and touch its buttery fabric.

When the woman running the shop glances at me, I freeze. The plastic grocery bag with my jeans and tee in it rustles in my hand, probably making me look like a homeless person. One of her manicured eyebrows lifts ever so slightly. Booking it back into the street. I tug on the hem of my hideous cotton dress and try to pull my long, brown hair back into a pony. Forget a makeover—I can't even afford the greasy omelets I serve. I limp away down the oily sidewalk.

As I slam the door of my apartment, Celeste peeks around the corner from the kitchen, eyebrows furrowed. "Are you ok? I was starting to get worried."

"I, uh, decided to walk it today." I am about to throw my windbreaker on the couch, when I freeze. "Oh my gosh, Celeste!" The sofa is covered in beautiful, vibrant fabrics. She grins shyly as I admire the dresses, blouses, and skirts. I notice that most of them are absolutely tiny, even for Celeste's size zero butt. My I-hate-them-but-everyone-tells-me-they-are-cute hips couldn't even cram into these on a good day.

"What's the occasion?" I ask. I don't mention the super nice cappuccino machine that arrived in the mail last week, or the new gaming console under the TV, but I'm starting to wonder. "Did you get a sugar daddy?"

She giggles and starts to stuff the clothing back into the shopping bags that litter the floor. "No, just a new job. I really like it."

"You didn't tell me you got a new job!" Last time I checked, Celeste helped out part time at the front desk of a very questionable dentist all the way down in Englewood. Digging a strawberry pop-tart from the cabinets, I sit on the edge of the counter without bothering to toast it and cup my hand to catch the crumbs. A pair of broke twenty-two-year-olds are never going to waste money on napkins. After the endless, freezing walk, the crunchy, artificial pastry tastes like heaven.