Page 29 of Mafia And Maid

Sure, a couple of rooms have taken me a few hours longer to clean than I hoped, but I managed. It’s nearly three now, and I’m finding that there is less and less to do except wait for laundry to be done.

I carefully place one of Alessio’s shirts on a hanger and set it into his closet with care. Then I snatch it back out again, worrying that I haven’t put it in the right place.

After he said that I’d messed up his system, I’m determined to prove to them all that I can learn and adapt. At first, I have no idea how I’m ever going to arrange Alessio’s clothes to his satisfaction. The vastmajority of his clothing is black, and although I understand there are subtle differences between the shades, how on earth am I supposed to grade those shades so that his clothes are arranged in a row of perfectly graduated black color?

I sink onto the side of the bed and put my head into my hands. I have to get this right—because it was clear as day that he was far from pleased with me last night.

An idea comes to me. I grab my cell from the kitchen and use it to take photos, one by one, of the clothes in his closet, also taking a picture of each label so that I know exactly what order he likes them hung in. Then, I do the same with the items in his dresser.

This should help me when I need to put away his laundry in future. Because this job needs to work out. There’s no backup plan, and with the fear of facing the streets again, my fingers fumble as I take the last of the photos I need. Nausea sweeps through me at the prospect of failure—what will Ethan and I do when I fail?

When I fail.The words feel like a slap to the face, and I fight back a wince.

I told Kori I’d call tonight, but what will I tell Ethan? I can’t get his hopes up yet. The ground under my feet is anything but solid. But if I can last the month’s trial and get taken on permanently, then I might have enough money after three months for us to leave Chicago altogether. I just need enough for bus tickets, a deposit, the first month’s rent, and something to keep us going until I find myself another job.

I bounce from room to room, my head a spiral of dark clouds. Each item I go to pick up comes with a second guess or a hesitation. Do they prefer it there? Have I messed up yet again? Will I be cornered in the kitchen again tonight when Marco and Alessio inevitably critique my work?

The clock down the hall chimes, and I make my way to the kitchen in a fog. Last night's meal wasn’t great. And the unhappy expression on Marco’s face told me that I need to do better. Be better. He’s the one who’ll ultimately tell me to go packing or not. He’s the one who holds my future in his hands, though I'm sure the others will have a sayas well.

Fear and doubt bubble in my chest as I wash my hands and set to work. I’ll do a nice, easy chicken parmesan. I can manage that. I carefully slice the chicken, forcing myself to just focus on the knife and the cutting board—and not the words that utter in the back of my head, the ones that make my hand shake unevenly.

Grayden hated this for dinner, but it’s the best option until I can get to the store tomorrow given what’s in the fridge and pantry. Grayden always said my chicken was too dry, the sauce too salty, and the pasta too overcooked.

Setting the knife down, I close my eyes and take a calming breath. If this is the last night I get to work here, I’ll have experience then. Someone else would hire me after that, right?

But the reality of it is that two days are not any better than no experience at all.

My mother and father are right. I’m useless. I’m just here. Taking up too much space. Far more space than I want to. I wish I could have returned to my family when I left Grayden—I’d wished for that so many times during my marriage. But marrying him is the only thing I’ve ever done that’s made them happy and proud of me. Grayden’s bound to go there, looking for me, and I shudder to think what they’ll say when Grayden tells them that I’ve run away—and I know that my father would force me to return to my husband.

The time passes quickly, and as I’m checking the clock, there’s a commotion at the front door before it opens and then slams shut, making me yelp.

I carefully set down the plate I’m holding and try to calm myself. It takes nothing at all for my heart to begin its frantic beating and my muscles to lock up tight in anticipation. I know that any one of them could come marching in here with fire in their eyes and a raised hand—and the smallest thing will cause them to ask me to leave right away.

“Try to stay the fuck still!” Camillo’s deep voice hits my ears first.

“Next time you can get shot,” Alessio says in a hoarse voice.

Shot? Did he say shot? Like bullets and actual blood? Oh my God…

“I told you both to fucking wait for me, but you had it all figured the fuck out,” Camillo snarls before his broad body fills the doorway.

Alessio’s arm is draped over his shoulder, and he’s clutching his red-stained shirt. With a hiss, Camillo lowers him to the chair without so much as a glance at me.

I’m frozen on the spot, my breaths coming in and out, faster and faster.

“I don’t need your fucking help.” Marco’s deep growl makes me want to hide. I swallow thickly before my body moves to the stove where the sauce sits in wait. None of them have addressed me yet, and I know better than to speak before being spoken to.

“Bullshit. You were nearly Swiss cheese. Now sit the fuck down.”

Camillo flicks a long, glossy strand out of his eyes from where it’s fallen out of the half knot at the back of his head. Crimson smudges against his forehead. His blood or his brothers’ blood? I can’t tell. “I need the first aid kit in the hall bathroom,” Camillo says, peeling off Marco’s ruined suit jacket.

Dark splotches of blood make bile run up the back of my throat.

“Rosa!”

I can hear the stuttered breathing from my lips, the clammy feeling of my body.

“Get the first aid kit. Now!”