The Carrero Contract - Selling Your Soul (Mafia Romance)

Loving someone is not a reason to treat you shittily. You deserve answers from him. I’m battling myself, fighting my own thoughts and yet the overwhelming aching pain is taking control. Alcohol fuelled stupidness and I cannot seem to stop myself, dragging myself onto my feet as I sway around crazily, mentally yelling NO while my body aims for the bedroom with a set mind to finding my phone, with tears dripping off my nose.

I want to hear him say it in his own words. Why I’m not good enough? Why he doesn’t trust me? Why I’m good enough to fuck and yet so easy to discard? I cannot seem to apply the logical ranting refusals to the parts of me which are in control and looking for where I left it, tripping over my own feet as I search the bed and bedside cabinet.

I am two people in one brain and the dumb part, completely intoxicated and ignoring reason, is in control of my physical movements. My heart shredding with the stupid intoxicated stupor I am in and blanking every warning bell and alarm call going off like a neon sign over my head. He doesn’t want to talk to me and if he does he will find some way of being the arsehole he always is.

That night was a one-off, never to be repeated and I need to stop clinging to empty hope and fantasy. Even telling myself this, I still keep looking for it. I locate my phone on the floor by the bed and slump down in a dishevelled heap beside it to pick it up, stabbing manically at the screen in an attempt to pull up his number and smiling to myself in satisfaction when, through my haze and blurry vision, I see his name across my screen as it connects.

It’s short-lived when it goes straight to his answer machine and I hang up and try again with a touch of bitterness. Seventeen times in a row like a psycho stalker not taking the hint, and seventeen times I have worked myself into a frenzy of rage because the arsehole has clearly turned off his phone after leaving me here to rot. Alexi never turns off his phone, so why today when he’s dumped my arse on Mico.

I wonder if he has blocked my number and another sob hits me full force with this realisation.

Bastard! I wouldn’t put it past him to be this cold. He truly has wiped his hands of me without one single tiny ounce of decency, and I, for one, am not going to just disappear without a fight because Lord Carrero deems it. I want to fucking see him and yell at the bastard, I want to have it out and hear him tell me what I did that was so fucking wrong in his life that he has to hate me the way he does.

I want to know exactly why he never wants me near MY club again after I was the one who made it what it is. I put my all into that place and now he is replacing me with some airhead in a cheap dress who couldn’t run anything, let alone my upmarket establishment. It’s the worst part of this.

them on and fall off the end of the bed with an almost comical thud which I am too drunk to feel. Groaning as the room spins around me I pick myself up clumsily to pull on the first coat to hand and yank it on. Pulling my heavy body back up, using the bed as support, I start stubbornly walking for the main door, once again tripping over nothing

mouth and nose and shake myself a little to be more coordinated in a bid to get on the path I

think or see straight and one thing is on replay in my head. Alexi does not care about me. But he is sure as hell going to face me one last bloody time! That little voice of sense and reason, so far away in the back of my brain, yet here I am, swaying down the hall with keys in hand and zipping up my tiny jacket to shield me from the horrendous weather outside. The desk clerk watches my attempt to walk by, and even though it’s obvious I am completely inebriated he just goes back to typing on his expensive pc at his polished marble desk and ignores my hazardous departure. The door man does the same and it just adds to the sense of tragedy, the

invisible, worthless and no

with a cold biting wind and lashing rain—not that I care—it can’t be any worse than my makeup I stupidly applied after Mico left being in stripes down my face now. It’s

no shits at all. Maybe I do. I mean, why else would I be running towards a man who makes me

me to be someone else’s problem and no longer wants anything to do with me, because he is taking what I worked so hard for away. I know this is why this heightened panic has hit me in this way, this sense that tonight is the last chance I will have of

always shrouded with his men or moves around a lot. You don’t just bump into someone like Alexi very often if you do not move in his circles, and once

I get a tube ride downtown and end up two blocks from the club while still slurring every word coming out of

woman who is still sobbing her heart out, and I am more than aware of the pathetic spectacle I am making of myself. Typical New Yorkers avoiding something they deem is none

and I have no idea what to say or what I will do when faced with him, but all rationale has gone out the window and all my blurry stupid head is repeating is ‘’Find Alexi’’ I just need to see him. I have a speech in my head of what I want to say, angry and sad at the same time, my mind turning

rest of the way as the rain turns to drizzle and I’m soaked through to my underwear. My hair is still tied up in a ponytail and acting as a tap for the water to run down my back and into my boots. I feel like my clothes are stuck to every part of me and I must look like I went swimming while fully clothed. I just have nothing else on my brain than the

sight of me then it's game over, and they will stop me before I get to see him. Mico will march my arse right back to the upper

man, and yet here I am stalking him stupendously in a bid to see him once more, even if I am planning on telling him a few home truths and where he