Page 23 of Mafia And Maid

Beneath the mass of clutter lies a luxurious dark room that might just suit the man I’ve met. The black wood paneling behind the enormous bed with rumpled black bedding is accented by a large ornate mirror that is too high to be anything but decorative. It’s beautiful, even covered with dust.

I stirp the bed sheets and put them on to wash in the laundry room. And by the time I’ve cleared half of the room out, it starts to look hospitable again, and it’s enough for me to see the finish line. Hauling another basket of laundry down, I notice the minuscule number of suits Camillo possesses. Instead, he appears to prefer plain black shirts, T-shirts, and tank tops, together with combat pants, jeans, chinos, sweats, and dark leather jackets.

I thought mafia men all prefer to flaunt their wealth with obvious designer suits that tell the world that money’s no object?

Grayden certainly had loved to show off his money, opting for the most expensive and well-tailored suits he could afford, together with polished Italian leather loafers, expensive wristwatches, Cuban cigars for celebration, and anything and everything to prove to the world that he’s someone of importance.

I step inside his closet and run my fingers over the clothes hung in there. I wonder why he dresses in the way that he does. But then, I dismiss the thoughts about Camillo’s clothing choices from my head with a decisive shake. I’m snooping on day one.What the hell is wrong with me?

Getting back to work, sweat drips down the crevice between my breasts and down my spine by the time the floor is immaculate. The dark wood dresser that matches the bedframe is clear of clutter, dusted, and polished to perfection. Its sleek black surface shines backso brightly that I can see myself in the glimmer of the refection. But I wince away from looking at myself before I get trapped.

Going back to the task in hand, I notice that there’s hardly anything personal in the room but work out equipment and wrapping for hands. Does he box, perhaps? With a body like his, that wouldn’t surprise me.

I tell myself to focus as I move onto making the bed with the freshly washed bedding. The silken fabric is soft and warm against my hands as I struggle across the massive bed to get the sheet in place. My hands only tremble slightly with each crease of the corners. Perfect. It has to be perfect—the corners have to be tight enough to bounce a quarter off.

I swipe at my brow, dabbing the glow of perspiration away as I take in the now spotless room. It’s massive, dark, and brooding, just like Camillo. It suits him.

The attached bathroom is actually quite clean, although again, it’s beyond messy. I’m beginning to think that Camillo’s real issue is a lack of putting things away rather than being dirty per se.

Next, I set to work on Marco’s and Alessio’s bedrooms, fighting the wince at the sting from the residual pain in my ribs flaring to life. But I charge on with cleaning, laundry, and ironing until a text from Camillo tells me that they’ll be home in two hours. With most of the lower level now also clean, I decide I’ll have to leave the remaining areas until after dinner.

Setting my sights on the pantry, I step inside, but my mind ignores all the ingredients that I could potentially use for tonight’s dinner. Because my senses are overwhelmed by the far wall...

My eyes widen in wonder, taking in the sheer abundance of cakes and candy. The shelves there are stacked with colorful packages, each one a promise of sugary bliss. I remember now that Camillo said his brothers have six kids between them. That explains it. Although I should get back to planning dinner, I can’t help but linger.

Because cakes are my weakness. My difficulty.My Achilles’ heel.

Cakes are what lies between me and a thin, beautiful body.

I know I should turn around and vow to never look at these shelves again, but my feet stay rooted to the spot.

Brightly colored boxes of Twinkies catch my eye first. The golden sponges with creamy filling practically call out my name. I reach out,almost on instinct, my fingers grazing the cool wrapping. I can almost taste the spongy sweetness and the burst of vanilla cream as it melts in my mouth.

Next to them are Ding Dongs, and I imagine biting into the sumptuous chocolate cakes filled with fluffy white cream. And to the right, the shelf groans under the weight of a variety of Hostess cupcakes, their chocolate frosting glistening under the pantry’s soft light. Each one is a work of art, topped with that iconic swirl of white icing.

Rows of Little Debbie snacks are neatly arranged, and Zebra Cakes, with their white icing and chocolate stripes, jump out at me. I pick up a box, feeling the familiar crinkle of the wrapper, as I imagine the first bite—the soft cake giving way to the sweet cream center, the chocolate drizzle adding just the right amount of richness.

It’s a treasure trove of indulgence, and I can practically smell the sweet, tantalizing aroma—and the hundreds of calories packed into every little package.

And that one word—calories—wakes me up from my dream. It curls around me like an insidious whisper. Because all these tempting treats are off limits. I’m on a diet. I’m always on a diet. I can’t remember a time since my teenage years when I haven’t been counting every single calorie whether it’s been a day of bingeing or fasting.

But the cakes look so good. My stomach growls, a traitorous sound that echoes my thoughts. I’ve been down this road before, and it never leads anywhere good.

I wrap my arms around myself, as if holding on tight will keep me from reaching out. The memory of the promise I make to myself every night before I fall asleep flickers through my mind.

It's not just about the cakes. It's about the feeling that comes with eating them. The momentary bliss that floods my senses with every bite—and the sweet escape from my troubles.

But that bliss is always short-lived, giving way to guilt and self-loathing that stick around much longer than the taste of frosting on my tongue. I know this cycle all too well.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to center myself. I picture the version of me that I want to be—thin, confident, healthy,and beautiful. She wouldn’t be staring longingly at a table full of cakes; she would walk away without a second thought.

But that idealized version of myself seems so distant, almost like a stranger.

It’s only when I check the time that I force myself to turn away. Because I have to keep this job. I have to get enough money for Ethan and me to get away for good.

Dinner. It still needs to be tackled. It has to be something simple that I can’t mess up. With another glance at what’s available, I settle on steak and homemade fries alongside a fresh salad.

As I peel and cut the potatoes, my gaze drifts to the kitchen counter, and a pang of longing shoots through me. Ethan should be sitting there doing his coloring while I prepare the meal. My heart seizes, and I nearly slice my finger before I banish the feeling and focus on what I’m doing.