Requiem of Sin - A Mafia Romance

CLARA

This cannot be happening.

I must've suddenly gone insane, because there's no way in hell I'm seeing this machine flash that giant word in front of me.

Jackpot.

The slot machine is blaring happy-but-loud alarms to celebrate; that explains why so many heads have turned my way to stare. Some look excited for me; some look frustrated.

Most look pissed.

One in particular, an older lady in a tracksuit and fanny pack, is mouthing curses so intense her dentures nearly fall out. I can't really blame her-she'd just moved from this exact seat moments ago.

But I don't hear any of it.

Not Grandma's cussing, not the whispers, not the bells and whistles announcing the lucky break I've been begging my whole life to receive. I'm a little busy trying to retrace my steps to make sure this isn't some fever dream I'm having in a ditch somewhere.

Here's the thing: I don't gamble. Gambling is for people who have nothing to lose, and I⁠-

Wait. I take that back.

I never gambled before, because gambling is for people who have nothing to lose, and I've always had far too much at stake.

That changed tonight.

Tonight, as I limped my way to a night shift at my second job slinging drinks as a cocktail waitress for one of Las Vegas's most exclusive nightclubs, I realized that I literally had nothing to lose.

Nothing tangible, anyway.

I've always been broke. I work long hours and sleep short ones just so I can scrape together enough money and time for my daughter. Willow is only five, and she deserves to have her mother present and active in her daily life. It's why I started taking night shifts as often as possible-so I could be there for her, providing for her emotional needs, even if I could barely afford to provide for her practical ones.

Martin promised to take care of us. He promised to take care of me even before I got pregnant, actually, and his pretty song only grew louder as my stomach grew larger. When he held our newborn in his arms for the first time, tears streamed down his face as he swore to take care of us for the rest of our lives.

Of course, I believed him. Who wouldn't? He wasn't just my boyfriend and my kinda-sorta, we'll-get–to-it-eventually-fiancé; he's an officer with the Las Vegas Police Department.

Which is why I grew suspicious when his promises fell flat only a few short months after the birth.

I was supposed to stay at home, which was something we both agreed on. He doesn't earn six figures by any stretch of the imagination, but he's on the cusp of making detective and the bonuses he's gotten have been enough to keep our heads above water.

At least, I thought they were. Until all of a sudden, I felt like I was drowning.

The first time he hit me was when I asked why he only gave me thirty dollars for grocery shopping.

The second time was when I asked him about the vague, ominous "Final Notices" appearing in the mailbox like clockwork.

The third time he slapped me across the face happened in the dark, because the electricity had been shut off.

I've been able to brush it off each time because of his job. The stress he's under, and in this city? It's enough to make Mother Teresa lose her shit. He was always mortified at what he'd done and would spend the days after worshiping me like a goddess. He gave me a little more for groceries, and the Final Notices disappeared. He figured out that the electricity issue was a simple misunderstanding, something in their billing office that was misfiled.

Or so he said.

But none of that ever lasted for long.

The fourth time he hit me was when I told him I got a job. He took it as an affront to his identity as the provider, a sign that I didn't trust him. An "underhanded, bullshit, feminist move to emasculate me, to cut my fuckin' balls off" were his exact words.

The truth is, I was tired of Googling eighty different ways to cook potatoes. I was tired of pretending like I don't eat breakfast just so I could ration out enough oatmeal for Willow. I was tired of being tired of being too poor to be a mother.

I started off waitressing at the kind of big chain where they make all the servers sing a goofy rendition of "Happy Birthday," but I quickly figured out that the real money was in the night scene. I will never set foot inside a strip club, don't get me wrong, but cocktail waitresses still make way more money than pancake house servers.

I eventually convinced Martin that it was a good idea. More money, fewer questions.

That didn't mean he's stopped smacking me around.

He doesn't like how I spray perfume in my long hair to coax bigger tips from the drunk executives who breathe it in whenever I lean over the leather couches to serve their cocktails. He doesn't like the way the polyester uniforms hug my curves, or show off my legs, or put my cleavage on display for any jackass with a five-dollar bill burning a hole in his pocket.

If it's something he feels will tempt men to ogle me, Martin hates it.

And he's very efficient about letting me know.

The nightclub I work at recently updated their wardrobe and my new uniform arrived yesterday. It's sequined, champagnecolored fabric with ruched sides, a plunging neckline to show off the tatas, and toga-like straps on each shoulder to keep it all in place.

On someone less voluptuous, it might go to just above the knee. But on me, it stops at the middle of my thigh. There's a pair of matching heels we're expected to wear while on the floor, but management encouraged us to bring flats for our breaks and commutes. How kind of them.

Martin let me know exactly what he thought about my new look when he got home and found me trying on the shoes. This time, he didn't care that Willow was right there next to me.

But I cared.

So when he slapped me so hard across the face I almost fell off the couch-when I heard Willow's terrified screams-I decided right then and there that enough was enough.

"What are you gonna do, huh? What the fuck are you gonna do?" He laughed at me.

He didn't care that I was seething.

He didn't care that I was glaring up at him with murderous rage in my eyes or that our daughter was sobbing and cowering away from him.

"You're not leaving this house looking like some two-dollar whore!" When he saw my tears, Martin tilted his head to one side in mocking sympathy. "Awww, did that hurt? I'm sorry, baby..." Willow hiccupped between her sobs and peeked up at him. "Daddy?"

"Shut up!" he roared at her.

I don't know what came over me, other than pure maternal instinct. I just know that one moment, I was on the couch, my face burning from the slap...

And the next, I was flying through the air at him.

I slammed into Martin so hard that he stumbled over the recliner and we both toppled to the floor into a painful heap of limbs.

I didn't waste time to check and see if he was hurt. I sprung up to my feet, whirled around, grabbed Willow, and ran with her to her bedroom. Once I made sure the door was locked, I wrapped her up in my arms and we rocked together on her tiny bed.

You're probably asking, why didn't I call the police?

Answer: Because Martin is the police.

I held my daughter close as his fists banged against her door. Loud. Furious. Violent. I kissed her tears away as they continued to flow. I needed her to know that I'm here. I'll always be here. I'll never let her grow up in the hell that I had to endure.

Eventually, she was able to stop hiccupping enough to sing our favorite song together, about rainbows and daydreams and bluebirds flying to places we can only imagine.

Eventually, the banging slowed into a persistent knock.

Eventually, his shouts melted into apologies and pleas.

And eventually, finally, he was gone.

I waited until I heard the front door slam shut and the sound of his car vanished down the road before I dared move from the bed. Then, once I knew for sure he was gone, I threw a few changes of clothes for Willow into her backpack and called my best friend to let her know it was finally happening.

We were leaving.

Roxy peeled into the driveway less than ten minutes later. I'd bet everything I've ever owned that she blew through every red light on her way over.

She greeted Willow the same as always, hiding the worry in her eyes behind a brilliant smile. "Hey, pretty lady! Wanna have a girls' night? I got pizza and ice cream and three kinds of soda!"

"Yeah!" Still puffy-eyed, Willow practically threw herself into Roxy's SUV.