Page 2 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

My knees buckle as I stagger forward. But I don’t go down, and push on. One foot. Then the other. Push. Push. Push. Onward in the direction of the women’s restroom.

I tuck my chin and make a broad circle around Emily and Ciro, then cross the floor. No one but a handful of unlucky strangers witness my downward spiral right here in the middle of the casino’s groundbreaking ceremony.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? But what happens when the closest people to you die? Does the same rule apply? Will you suddenly be gifted some fucked-up superhero powers now that you’ve experienced the worst Fate has to offer? If so, I could use them right now.

Take-me-to-the-bathroom power, activated.

“Honey, you’re…” someone cries out in alarm. I keep moving and don’t acknowledge her, not even when she finishes her sentence. “…bleeding.”

I don’t want attention, pity, or concern. I want the cold embrace of comfortable oblivion to swallow me whole.

Finally, I reach the restroom and hurry inside, pushing into an empty stall before doubling over with my hands on my knees, hyperventilating yet fighting for control.

Focus on your breath.

Everything will be okay.

No. Not okay. Never okay. Lower your expectation to nearly bearable.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I relax and regain some semblance of normalcy.

I stay like this for a while. Women enter, occupy the stalls next to me, wash their hands, then leave. And little by little, my mind calms enough to plan.

Wash my face. Fold my hands over my ruined dress and hide the champagne stain until I can make it to the exit. Go home and drink a cup of tea. Earl Grey tea—it’s good for the immune system.

Plan in place, I exit the stall and approach the mirror to assess the damage.

Champagne-soaked hair frames my sticky face. I wash it away while nausea rolls through the pit of my stomach.Damn overpriced designer handbags.

I dry my face and decolletage with a few paper towels. More towels, less and less stickiness. The process continues until I can press a hand to my cheek and remove it without a soft sizzle similar to the noise slime makes when you roll it in your palm. By the time I’m finished, my hands have stopped shaking.

I consider my next steps and then retrieve my cell phone from my dress pocket and text Emily.

Riley: Broke my heel so headed home. Talk tomorrow.

Do I feel bad about lying? Not really. Emily doesn’t believe nonmilitary people can suffer from PTSD. Heck, I spent days online researching my diagnosis to better understand how psychological trauma is at the heart of these illogical reactions. There’s no chance in hell I’ll share my panic attack, especially not how it was triggered by a designer handbag. As far asEmily is concerned, I’m the same girl who completed her best friend’s calculus homework and reasoned with her about why her current flavor-of-the-month didn’t deserve her tears.

Unfortunately, the list on Ciro could be turned into a book, one I began mentally compiling only this week.

With my composure fully in place, I exit the bathroom and make a beeline for the front entrance. I cross the club and exit onto the street without issue, and as luck would have it, a large white car sits waiting at the curb.

Thank heavens. I hurry forward, pull open the door, and climb into the backseat. “I’ll pay you double if you take me home now,” I tell the Uber driver. “I live five blocks away. You’ll be back in time for whoever hired you.” It’s a bold move. But logical, considering it’s a win-win situation for both of us.

I feel his stare from behind his dark sunglasses.

“Please get me out of here,” I softly insist, pulling the door closed behind me. “Tonight’s been difficult.” His head turns toward the sidewalk, and I glance out the window, trying to track what’s captured his attention.

My gasp fills the car. It’s him. My stranger. He’s exited the club and is outside the vehicle, standing a few feet away, frozen mid-sidewalk and shooting daggers at the driver.

Oh, sweet hell. I’ve stolen his Uber.

“Get out,” the driver snaps.

I look away from his scowl to the stranger’s harsh stare.

“Listen and listen carefully. Either leave or I’ll toss your ass inside the trunk and take you for a ride you’ll regret.”

I search the car dashboard for his Uber credentials, so I can report him for threatening a customer.