Drawn To Darkness (Kings Of Mafia)

Dario La Rosa; 31. Eden Taylor; 24.

Opening my eyes, I listen to the sirens blaring around the neighborhood. It’s something you get used to when you live in Brownsville. It’s one of The Bronx’s poorest and most dangerous areas, but I’ve learned to navigate the streets.

Sadly, it’s home.

The air is stuffy with the early autumn heat, and it has me kicking the covers off.

The AC must be broken again.

I have to talk to the building manager about the faulty heating and broken AC which is a conversation I never look forward to having.

I have to make a plan to buy another blanket, seeing as winter is only a couple of months away, and having heat in this apartment is never a sure thing.

I also have to talk to Sylvia about working extra shifts so I can pay the overdue gas bill.

God. Rent was due last week.

Letting out an exhausted sigh, I drag myself out of bed.

Digging clothes from the drawers of the dresser, I walk to the bathroom and turn on the faucets in the shower. While brushing my teeth, I pray the water will warm up, but when I hold my hand beneath the spray, there’s no luck.

I’ll have to ask Sylvia for an advance, or it’ll be me and cold showers for the next two weeks.

Taking off my underwear and favorite sleepshirt, I step beneath the cold spray and shiver as I rush to wash my hair and body. I keep hopping from one foot to the other as if it will help to warm me up, and the instant I’m done, I dart out of the icy shower.

I grab a bleached towel and dry myself at the speed of light before throwing on my jeans and T-shirt.

“Jesus.” I shudder from the cold, and rushing back to my bedroom, I put on my socks and boots.

When I’m fully dressed, I hurry to the kitchen to see if I have any coffee left. Not finding any, I open the fridge and take a sip of the last of the orange juice.

Wanting to avoid Winston, the building manager, until I have the money for rent, I open the window in the small living room and step out onto the steel grate to go down the fire escape.

Just as I head down the stairs, my neighbor, Tyrone, opens his window and pokes his head outside.

“Don’t run off. Your mother is passed out in the hallway.”

I shake my head and continue down the stairs as I answer, “Not my problem, Tyrone.”

“She’s your mother,” he shouts. “She stinks like the dead.”

“Just because the woman gave birth to me doesn’t mean shit. Let her sleep in the hallway until Winston throws her out.”

When I reach the alley, I glance up to see Tyrone shake his head before shutting his window.

Mandy, the woman who brought me into this world, has never been a mother to me. When I was younger, Tyrone always made sure I had something to eat while Mandy was out getting drunk or high.

The woman doesn’t have a motherly bone in her body and is nothing but a thorn in my side. I had to put extra locks on the front door to keep her out. She keeps breaking in and stealing my shit so she can pay for her next hit or her tab at the bar.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I shake my head while I walk to Ben’s Burgers, the diner that’s responsible for my second income. I always work the twelve to seven shift before heading over to the ballet company, where I work the night shift as a janitor.

If I’m lucky, Sylvia will let me work the morning shift as well.

Who needs sleep when they have bills to pay?

When I reach the diner, it’s to see the place is busier than usual.

The second Sylvia lays eyes on me from where she’s pinning orders up so Jaden, the cook, will see them, she orders, “Take care of Destiny’s section as well as your own. She’s not in today.”

 “Okay,” I answer while I quickly walk to the back so I can stash my handbag in my locker. Grabbing my apron, I tie it around my waist before digging my notepad and pencil out.

I get to work, and for the next couple of hours, the place is a madhouse. The sounds of dishes clattering, burger patties sizzling, and orders being given and taken fill the air, along with the smell of old cooking oil.

I don’t know why I bother showering before coming in for my shift because I always leave feeling sticky all over.

As soon as there’s a lull between customers, I walk to the counter with an apprehensive smile.

Sylvia’s eyes flick at me, and with a frown, she says, “What do you want, Eden? If it’s time off, you can forget about it. We’re already short-staffed.”

“Then you’ll be happy to hear I need to work an extra shift in the morning.”

Keeping her attention on the cash she’s taking out of the register so she can put it in the safe, she asks, “For how long?”

“Permanently if possible.”

Her gaze darts to me, and I see a rare flicker of concern. “You work nights over at that dance place and afternoons here. When do you plan to sleep?”

I widen my smile and lift my chin. “Sleep is for the dead.”

She stares at me for what feels like a solid minute before she says, “I’ll let you work half the morning shift.”

“But –”

She shakes her head firmly. “Only from nine to twelve. I don’t need you dropping dead in my diner.”

It’s better than nothing.

A group of construction guys comes in, and knowing I have to get back to work, I swallow my pride and ask, “Can I get an advance for the next two weeks?”

Sylvia’s eyes narrow on me, which has me adding, “Please. You know I’m good for it.”

“I’m not a bank,” she mutters as she takes the amount I need from the stack of bills in her hand.

I feel a flicker of relief, but it passes quickly because it’s only a temporary fix. At the end of the day, I’m still dead-ass broke, and no matter how hard I work, I can’t drag myself out of the poverty I was born into.

When Sylvia hands me the cash, I give her a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

She gestures with a nod of her head to the booths and tables. “Get back to work.”

I tuck the money into my apron’s pocket, and while I take orders, I do the math and hope paying half of the gas bill will have them turning it back on.

At least I can pay Winston the overdue rent.

Just before my shift ends, I find a fifty-dollar tip at one of my tables. I do a little happy dance because it means I can buy coffee and the extra blanket I’ll need for winter and put the rest toward the gas bill.

I try to remember who was sitting at the table, but I’ve served so many people today I give up and decide just to be thankful for the customer’s kindness.

When I push the cleaning cart into the restrooms near the studios, a couple of dancers linger in front of the mirror.

After applying a fresh coat of lipstick, the one nearest to the door says, “I saw Madame Stafford and Mr. La Rosa heading toward her office earlier.” She wags her eyebrows at her friends. “He is H.O.T.”

Moving to the first stall, I get to work and scrub the toilet, not paying much attention to their conversation.

“You can say that again,” another girl sighs.

“I didn’t see a wedding ring on his finger, so he’s still fair game,” Lipstick girl says.

Her friend shakes her head while scoffing, “The man is filthy rich. What makes you think he’ll give any of us a second glance? He can pick any woman in the country. Besides, if it hasn’t happened by now, it will never happen.”

Lipstick girl waves her hand over her well-toned body. “No man has ever said no to all of this. I just need an opportunity to get his attention.”

Her friend shakes her head again, and when I flush the toilet after scrubbing it, she shoots an uninterested glance my way before saying, “Let’s go.”

The dancers leave the restroom, and I continue working while I think about the new owner of the ballet company. The name was changed to La Rosa Opera Ballet a while back, and every ballerina I’ve encountered practically drools over the new owner, whom I haven’t seen yet.

Hey, whatever rocks their boat.

When I’m finished with the stalls, I quickly wipe down the sinks before mopping the floor. Pushing my cart out of the restroom, I head down the hallway, glancing into all the studios. Sure everyone has left for the day, I go to where my locker is and change into tight-fitting shorts and a cropped t-shirt.

Every night when the place has emptied out, I steal thirty minutes to dance. It helps ease my stress.

Ever since I was little, I’ve always loved dancing. I used to put on silly shows for Tyrone, and he used to clap his hands as if he’d witnessed the most epic performance.

A smile tugs around my mouth as I walk to the nearest studio.

Tyrone is a saint. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t have him as a neighbor.

In the studio, I connect my cell phone to the speakers so I can listen to my personal playlist while I dance.

As Alive by Sia starts to fill the air, I walk to the mirror and lock eyes with my reflection.

Deep breath in…and out.

I’m in control of my life.

Good things will come to me.

I choose to let go of the bad and invite only positive things into my life.

Nodding at myself, I suck in another deep breath before I begin to move. All the stress and worried thoughts fade to the background, and my body takes over.

My heart beats faster and faster, and my breaths speed up as the song’s tempo grows. I spin and shoot across the floor, and at times, it feels like I’m flying.

For a blessed moment, I feel free from the suffocating constraints of my life.

As Sia’s voice cracks on the high notes, I come to a stop and with my eyes closed, I listen as the song ends.

I take deep breaths of air and slowly lift my lashes.

My playlist skips to the next song, and as I’m Not Afraid by Tommee Profitt and Wondra begins to play, my eyes lock on a man.

Shit.

My chest heaves from all the exercise, and my hands fist at my sides as the shock of seeing the most attractive man I’ve ever crossed paths with stuns me.

He’s leaning with his shoulder against the doorjamb, and even though I don’t know much about luxury brands, I’m willing to bet the fifty-dollar tip I got today that the suit he’s wearing costs more than I make in a year.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

His light brown hair is tousled, which is in total contrast with his expensive clothes, and his brown eyes have a gleam to them I can’t quite place. He’s taller than the average guy and looks well-built.

As my eyes lock on his face again, I find myself staring once more. There’s just something about him that draws me in.

The corner of his mouth lifts while he tilts his head slightly.

The man seems amused by my reaction to him.

Knowing I shouldn’t be in the studio, I quickly come to my senses and walk to where I left my phone. I stop the playlist and disconnect my phone before walking to the door, where the man is still leaning against the doorjamb.

When I stop a few steps away from him, I ask, “Can you move so I can pass?”

Instead of doing as I ask, he says, “I was under the impression the place closes at nine.”

“Ah…yeah.” My tongue darts out to wet my lips. “I was just finishing up.”

I’m caught off guard when he holds his hand out to me. “I’m Dario.”

Not wanting to be rude, I place my hand in his. There’s an instant spark up my arm that ricochets through my body like a lightning bolt.

Damn, this man is all kinds of fine.

As we shake, he says, “Dario La Rosa.”

Holleeeeey shit.

The shock hits me square in the chest, and my eyes widen while I quickly rip my hand from his grip.

La Rosa. As in the owner. My bosses’ bosses’ boss.

I let out a nervous burst of laughter, which is something I always do when I find myself in deep shit.

I begin to squeeze past him so I can make a quick escape while saying, “Gotta run. I have somewhere to be.”

At work, cleaning your company.

I’m hit with a whiff of his intoxicating cologne and wouldn’t mind another hit, but too scared I’ll be caught slacking on the job, I hurry down the hallway.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he calls out while chuckling.

“I know,” I reply before disappearing around a corner.

Scared he’ll come after me, I break out into a run and don’t stop until I reach the lockers. I quickly change back into my jeans and t-shirt before dragging on the dark blue cobbler apron. Tying my hair in a ponytail, I put on a company cap.

I wait another ten minutes, and hopeful that Mr. La Rosa has left, I push my cart into the hallway and get back to work.

That was way too close. I’ll have to be more careful because if Mr. La Rosa catches me dancing on the job, he’ll probably fire me, and I can’t afford to lose the income.