The Carrero Contract - Selling Your Soul (Mafia Romance)

My heart sinks as that age-old knowing fear takes a grip of my throat and I know my apartment will see a second break in before sunrise. I am too tired for this.

This city is full of people with no scruples, and I am an easy target, especially in this state. I don’t have the energy to fight off two teens, even with my baseball bat and mace, not while I’m sick and messed up and close to falling down with fatigue. I have no one around here that would intervene in any way and the sad fact is … I have nothing worthy of protecting except myself.

I don’t hesitate. I shove everything I own into my two holdalls, not that I have much to pack, then pull on some sweatpants and trainers and a hoody over my lighter pyjamas. I’m not waiting around for a second assault in my own home, and as the place already looks like Armageddon swept through, it’s not going to make much difference to me. They can come see for themselves it’s all gone and I won’t be here to be the second choice. I make for the door, weighed down with two bags and a steel grit of getting the heck out of dodge.

Something in me pulls me back, and despite myself, I walk back to that darn couch and yank out the box and lift Mico’s card hurriedly. I stuff it into the open zip of the bag hanging on my shoulder before I exit the apartment and make my way outside onto the street.

The teens watch me go. I walk fast, keep my head down, and avoid a couple more randoms up at this hour in the dank hallways as I get down the stairs to the ground floor and into the street. It’s dark, cold and misty from incoming bad weather and the air around me smells like factory smoke and dirty air that hurts my already fragile throat. I pull up my hood to shield me from the biting elements and as I walk away I glance back and up at my second-floor windows. From outside, I can already see shadows across the window of my apartment as they check it out, snooping for remains of the spoils. I can’t believe the nerve of them but then again, it’s hardly a shock that this shit happens to me all the time.

I swear I am cursed.

Good luck boys, you won’t find anything of value and I won’t be back until I can find someone willing to help me fix my door.

I walk the streets for an hour, dragging my limbs, shivering incessantly with a banging head and heavy body. I have no idea where I am going, other than trying to kill time until daylight is blazing in the sky and the building I live in wakes up and fills with more than just night crawling psychos. I’ll feel safer going back when it’s morning and I can spend more time trying to get the door shut before I need to get ready for work at least. It’s only a couple of hours, maybe, before sunrise and I can handle street living until then. I mean, this was once my entire existence when I couldn’t find a place to stay, and I was flat out broke after getting to America. I have slept under bridges and all sorts. I am no stranger to being homeless; I just didn’t think I would still be doing it at my age. I had bigger plans than this.

I have no doubt those boys will be snooping into everything in there for something worthwhile and I don’t care. I have all I want with me and will carry it wherever I go, not that it’s much. I sold everything of value and have only my basics now.

musty old broken furniture and the pots and pans that were there when I moved in and not much else. I don’t cook in the apartment at all; eating at work or buying ready to eat cold dinners. The cooker stinks of gas when you switch it on and sometimes cuts out

I have always been someone who needs a healthy diet to function well. It was one of the perks of living with Alexi—he was obsessive about health and good food. I miss his

a decent meal

sitting on a bench in the park as the damp air clings to every part of me and worsens my runny nose; watching the trees in the wind and listening to the city noises all around me. Even at this hour, it never sleeps

area, streetlamps not doing much for this shadowy part and sigh sombrely.

and this makes me feel more so.

isn’t the safest, with no one caring where I am or what happens to me. I am almost twenty-nine years old and I am invisible in the world. It’s

in the dark, cool air and I get a swimming head once more. Sniffing hard and coughing until my lungs burn and I can barely breathe. I shouldn’t be out here when I’m getting ill, but it’s better than sitting like a target waiting

my body heat and use my bags as a cushion, wrapping my arms around them to find some comfort. It’s not the comfiest of positions on a hard-wooden seat that’s barely deep enough for my bum, let alone my full body. I jump in fright when a man walks out of the nearby bushes and spies me with more than an interested

and concealed

his dog follows him from the same place he appeared from, just an early morning walker while it’s still empty and quiet, but it puts me on edge and

traces of concussion no doubt. I need to sleep but I have no other choice except to walk or wait until morning and I’m more likely to be able to deal with my door once the apartment’s empty. I sit back up in frustration, knowing only too well

focus on something other than my sore face, crappy body and pitiful plight, and pull the tattered western from inside the messy contents. As long as the rain stays

life. I still yank my book out anyway, in case I can see it