Five Years After Breaking Up, the Don Begged Me Back

The clinic was behind a laundromat. You had to walk through a corridor of hanging white sheets to get in. The owner didn't ask names, didn't write receipts; he just drew a line on the chalkboard on the wall. One more. Another one came in.

Inside the black-market clinic, I rolled up my sleeve. The old doctor worked the length of my thin arm until he finally found a vein that would take the needle. Bright red blood ran down the tube and away from my body. The collection bag was already past what it should hold, and the cold was settling into my bones in waves.

Half an hour later I walked out with cash and made it to the hospital before the billing desk closed.

"This isn't enough."

"I know. I'm going to figure something out. Please, just give me two more days."

I'd lost count of how many times I'd had to bow my head these past years. Begging had become second nature.

At the end of the corridor was Rosa's room. I stopped in the doorway for a moment and watched her sleep. I couldn't stay.

I pulled my messenger jacket from the motorcycle's storage box and shrugged it on. I switched on the radio unit and started taking jobs. Luca or no Luca, I wasn't giving up on Rosa.

The jacket had a number printed on the chest, the underground network's ID for each runner. You didn't open the packages. You didn't ask who was receiving them or why. One rule: on time.

In Palermo's shadow economy, there were always packages that couldn't move through official channels after dark. Running them was one of the ways people at the bottom survived. Nobody asked questions.

I wove my motorcycle through the narrow lanes near the docks. A familiar cramp hit my stomach. The lights at night were too bright. Everything was starting to blur.

The screech of brakes hit out of nowhere. I was thrown a long way.

Then nothing.

The ceiling light was blinding. I tried to cover my eyes and the pain in my arm stopped me cold.

"Stop moving. It's broken."

Luca's voice, impatient. Which meant I was in a hospital.

I struggled up from the bed and nearly fell off the edge. Luca caught me.

"My bike, I still have deliveries—"

"Anna. Are you out of your mind?"

I didn't answer. I found my phone and pulled it up. Cracked screen, but I could still see the string of late-delivery alerts. Hopelessness washed over me. I didn't know how much I'd be fined, and I had nothing left to pay with.

I started sending messages one by one, explaining there'd been an accident, that the delay wasn't intentional, asking for some understanding.

He stood by the bed in a navy bespoke suit, completely out of place in a ward without curtains. He'd probably come straight from some post-wedding reception.

Luca snatched my phone. "You know what state you're in and you're still worrying about work?"

"Give it back." I looked at him, red-eyed, furious and refusing to look away. "Mr. Morello, I'm not asking you for money right now. What business is it of yours?"

A brief silence. He let out a short, cold laugh. "So what you're saying is, I'd have to pay to have any say in what you do?"

I didn't have the energy to argue. I still didn't know why he'd shown up here at all.

"Give me back my phone."

He didn't move. "Anna. Let me give you another way to make money."

I didn't know if this was another setup. But the word money made me look up anyway.

"Come stay with me. I'll pay you."

"You're married," I said.

"My memory's fine."

I didn't follow. "You want me as your mistress?"

Luca finally smiled. "Shouldn't be hard for you. After all, you take after your mother."

My fingers pressed into my own palm. My face went white.

He knew exactly where that would land.

Once, when someone had called me the bastard daughter of a kept woman, he'd stepped in front of me and thrown a punch.

Now the punch was his, and it was landing on me.

But Rosa needed me. I had to hold on.

I fought back the tears, my voice barely steady. "How much?"

"What?"

I met his eyes. "If I'm your mistress. How much?"

Luca's jaw tightened, his hand slowly closing into a fist. "Fifty thousand euros a month."

"Fine." I didn't hesitate for a second. "But the money comes first. Given the track record, Mr. Morello."

His chest rose and fell hard. He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and threw my phone back to me. The transfer had already cleared.

I let out a slow breath, walked up to him, and started to kneel down.

He caught my hand. "What are you doing?"

I looked up at him, face completely blank. "Being a mistress means taking care of you, doesn't it?"

Something I did enraged him. He grabbed my jaw. "Aren't you full of surprises."

Then he shoved me aside, turned, and walked out. "You think I'd touch you in this state."

The door slammed. I slid down to the floor, covered my eyes, and let the tears go.