Alexius: Chapter 4

The thick paper envelope feels smooth between my fingers, the bold gold letters stirring both fear and intrigue.

DS. Dark Sovereign.

Two words that have never been spoken without fear on this side of town. A society of men rumored to control the Port of Chicago, trading in everything from drugs to illegal firearms, and there have even been whispers of women being bought and traded like cattle.

Their illegal casinos and strip clubs are all around town, something that’s kept under the police’s radar with a few Benjamins each month. And there are rumors of them having a hand in the flourishing property market in upscale Chicago. Basically, there is nothing in this city untouched by the Dark Sovereign.

I’m not quite sure if we should consider ourselves lucky because the Del Rossa family doesn’t seem to give a shit about this part of town, or if it proves that it’s only a matter of time before hell will tear open a rift and have the flames melt our flesh while it burns this shithole.

A breeze picks up, and I jolt as it slams against the plastic sheet covering the broken glass of my bedroom window, causing it to clatter and clap. I’ve been on edge since leaving the diner rattled and confused as fuck. The entire time, I would look over my shoulder, getting the sense that someone was watching me—the paranoia sprouting like weeds inside my head.

What does Alexius Del Rossa want with me?

The black envelope taunts me as I glide my fingertips along the edges. It can’t be anything good. Nothing that has the symbol of the Dark Sovereign is ever good. Nothing given or accepted from the hands of the man whose presence both entices and terrifies you can ever be something with good intentions.

I lean back with my head against the cold wall, slipping my fingers through my hair, the ends tangled. I’m still wearing my uniform minus the black pumps, sitting cross-legged on my bed. The faded floral sheets crease along my legs, my toes wiggling through the tear in the fabric.

My stomach is all twisted in knots, and my pulse can’t stop racing. It’s surreal to think that the envelope staring back at me holds so much power.

I shudder, the crawling sensation across my skin whispering words of foreboding that my life is about to change, whether I want it to or not.

You want it to.

Nothing can be worse than it is now.

What do you really have to lose?

Nothing. I have nothing to lose.

I glance around the bedroom, my mother’s bed made and untouched. After she died, I cleaned the sheets and placed them back—never getting close to her bed after that.

We shared a room ever since my father left. Before that, my single bed used to be in the living room, pushed against the wall and stacked with pillows so it looked like an extra couch during the day. But after he walked out the door for the last time, I moved into the bedroom with her so I could lie awake at night listening to her breathe—some nights fearing it would stop, other nights praying she’d take her last one.

With a deep inhale, I can still smell her, the stench of a body slowly rotting from the inside while her veins pump the poison that created a hole in her mind where she’d escape so she could forget her pathetic life.

Just do it.

Just open the damn letter.

Tucking my curls behind my ears, I exhale and pick up the envelope, slicing the knife through the edge.

My heart no longer races. Instead, it’s stuck in my throat as I reach inside and pull out a letter. My hands shake so much I can hardly manage to unfold the paper.

The letter is handwritten, the black ink forming perfectly elegant cursive letters.

I drop the letter as if the paper burned my palm, cold chills slithering across my arms and legs.

What is this? What kind of game is he playing?

Darting off the bed, I start pacing, placing my hand on my forehead while my mind spins out of fucking control, unable to form a coherent thought. What on Earth do I have that Alexius Del Rossa wants?

I still and glance down my body, coffee stains soaked through the fabric of my uniform. Does he…? No. Alexius Del Rossa can have any woman he wants; there is no reason for me to think that he wants my body for anything…unless he’s offering me a job to work at one of his strip clubs.

Bile fills the back of my mouth, the thought alone making me feel sick to my stomach. I’d rather die of hunger than dance naked in front of men with their hands in their pants. There’s no way in hell I’d even consider it.

Do you really think that’s what he wants? Why would he offer you a job when there are thousands of women in this city desperate and confident enough to work a pole and flaunt their naked bodies in front of everyone who wants to watch?

It doesn’t make sense at all, but no matter which way I look at the context of the letter, it’s the only explanation I can think of. And in that case, there is no way I want to discuss it even further with him.

I grab my phone, and the shattered screen lights up as I punch in the number that’s on the back of the letter. My stomach tightens and the blood in my veins runs cold, yet perspiration beads at the back of my neck as a man’s voice resounds through the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Um…this is Leandra Dinali,” I say, my hand shaking as I hold the letter. “I’m calling about the—”

“Someone will pick you up in an hour.”

“No,” I blurt, met with utter silence from the other end. “I’m calling to say that I’m not interested in discussing whatever it is Alexius is offering.”

“Mr. Del Rossa.” The man’s voice is stern, hard as he corrects me.

“Fine. Please tell Mr. Del Rossa that I’m not interested in working at one of his clubs. But thank you anyway.”

I hang up and frown at my choice of words.

“Thank you anyway?” Jesus, Leandra.

My hands are still shaking, and my insides remain knotted even after I respectfully declined his undisclosed offer, convinced it can only be a stripping gig.

Out of breath, I sit down on the bed, clutching the edge of the mattress and pulling my shoulders up. A lot of girls would fiercely fight for an opportunity like this. Being a stripper might not be the most respectable job, but I’ve heard those girls make a lot of fucking money. In one night, they earn three times more money than I do in a week working at the diner. But the thought alone stacks ice up my spine. Ever since almost being raped because of one stupid dress, I do everything I can to hide as much flesh as possible. Working for the Dark Sovereign just isn’t something I’d be able to do.

I straighten and walk to the living room, looking at all the junk my mom and I used to call furniture. The three-seater couch only has space for one with the coils protruding through the sponge of the other two. What once was a white sofa is now a filthy, cheap-wine-stained piece of garbage with dried blood still smudged on the armrest. My blood. It was the last time my mother ever laid a hand on me, punching me in the face because I came home emptyhanded that night since I missed the bus to go to the usual exchange spot. That night she screamed at me for hours, telling me how selfish I was. What a miserable piece of shit she had given birth to. And like all the other times, she grabbed the opportunity to remind me how my father leaving us was my fault, how her heartbreak of missing him fell on my shoulders.

Guilt. That was her weapon of choice, and she gutted me from nose to navel every goddamn time.

I swallow the pain, something I thought I’d be able to bury with her, but it still haunts me even after her grave had been closed.

The memories still hurt, and I still bleed. I’ve lost all hope for anything other than a miserable life, losing count of ‘overdue rent’ notices being bolted to the front door, and sitting at the kitchen table making the decision between buying food or paying bills every goddamn day.

But I’ve seen it so many times around here, young women growing up with the hopes of having a better life only to realize that hope is so easily destroyed.

Flashes of the past bombard me while I walk through the tiny living space. I can’t help but wonder if it’s this place that kept me from moving on, if the memories are bound to every item in this apartment.

The coffee table with tea stains and carvings reminds me of how my dad would whittle the wood with his knife, an act that was meant to intimidate.

Holes in the carpet with hardened edges from burnt twine triggers memories of a mother who would rather smoke than feed her child.

I glance at the open door of the bathroom—a tiny space with a shower, toilet, and a broken sink—and all I think about are nights spent locked in there because my parents wanted to get high with friends and fuck like rabbits.

“God.” I sigh, leaning back against the wall while the shadows of past demons still lurk around this apartment. Maybe surviving should no longer be my short and long-term goal. Maybe leaving this apartment and all its fucked-up memories should be my short-term plan. Perhaps walking away from this part of my life is the only way for me to move on.

Ugh. Who am I kidding? It would take me years to come to a point where I’d be able to move out and move on. By then my determination to leave would be extinguished with the overwhelming sense of doom that came with poverty.

Back in my room, I tear the black envelope in half and chuck it in the bin. The last thing a girl like me needs is to get involved with a society known to ruin and rule everything they touch. Life is hard enough as it is.

My stomach growls, and I go to the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets which are empty apart from the last pack of instant noodles.

I tear open the pack and throw the noodles in a bowl. Instead of cooking it first, I sit at the rusty kitchen table and eat it raw, like chips, breaking off piece by piece and chewing the dehydrated noodles. I was five years old when I ate it raw for the first time. Both my parents were passed out drunk, and there was nothing else to eat but this pack of instant noodles. Too scared to use a pan and boil it, I went back into the bathroom, closed the door, and ate it raw. It tasted surprisingly good, and from that, I just kept on eating it raw—even after I was old enough and able to boil a pot of water.

There’s a loud knock on the door, and I swallow the bite of noodles before quietly stalking closer. “Who is it?”

“Alexius.”

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper to myself, my heart sling-shotting down to my feet.

“I would like to discuss my offer.”

“Um.” I press my back against the wall next to the door. “I told the person who answered the phone that I’m not interested.”

“I’m aware of that.” Even with a door between us, I can still hear the sharp edge and low tenor in his voice.

I clear my throat. “Then we don’t have anything to discuss.”

“I can assure you, we do.”

“Listen,” I start, holding on to my last thread of courage, “I have no interest in working at one of your clubs. So you can—”

“Miss Dinali. Open the door, or I’ll have Maximo here break it down.”

Jesus. “What the fuck are you—”

“I’m going to count to three. One.”

“You can’t just go around breaking down people’s doors.”

“Two.”

“Oh, my God,” I mutter. “Of course, you can. You’re Alexius Del Rossa.”

“Thr—”

“Fine!” I remove the chain and turn the latch before slowly opening the door, peeking around the edge while my heart thunders inside my chest. “What do you want to discuss?”

Alexius slants a dark brow, blue eyes demanding my attention. “Let me in, and I’ll say what I came here to say.”

“My apartment isn’t exactly presentable.”

Alexius nods toward the man I recognize as Maximo from this morning at the diner, and then I’m getting shoved back hard, falling on my ass as he pushes the door open—both he and Alexius walking inside.

“Here. Let me help you.” Alexius extends a hand, and for a moment I forget to breathe as I stare into striking blue eyes bright against the stark white collar of his dress shirt. They’re almost luminescent as the shadows eat away at the last sunrays of dusk shining through the kitchen window.

But I pull my shit together and break his gaze, scoffing at his gesture to help, and push myself back up onto my feet before rushing to the other side of the living room, which isn’t far since I live in a matchbox.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“I already said I’m not interested.”

He slips off his black trench coat and hands it to Maximo before straightening the sleeves of his suit jacket. There’s a pensive look in his eyes as he glances around the room, stalking across the ruined carpet. After dragging his fingertip along the kitchen table, he looks at his finger like it’s covered in dirt before pulling out a white handkerchief and wiping it off. If he was anyone else, I’d tell him what a pompous asshole he was by assuming just because I’m poor, I live in a pigsty. But Alexius isn’t just anyone, and I’d rather bite my tongue than lose it.

A frown curves along his dark brows. “Are you eating instant noodles…dry?”

I inch a little to the left, trying to put more distance between us. “You came here to discuss your offer I already refused, not my eating habits.”

“How can you refuse an offer when you don’t even know what it is?”

“I already know what it’s not.”

He smirks. “And what’s that?”

“Not something I’m interested in.”

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth before he walks closer, pinning me to the wall with his intense gaze. “Let’s just skip all the bullshit and get straight to the point.” Confidence drips from his lips with every word he speaks, and his presence slithers up my front like a snake making its way to my throat. “As my letter states, I have a proposal that both you and I will find beneficial.”

“Unfortunately, I have no desire to work at a strip club.”

He snorts and seems oddly amused. “You should learn to listen before making assumptions, Miss Dinali.”

“That is the offer, isn’t it?” My heart is beating so fast, so hard, I’m sure he can hear it pounding against my ribs.

“It’s not.”

“Well, I can’t think of anything else you and I would find mutually beneficial.”

His gaze drags down my body, iced irises setting my skin alight as he studies every inch of me. “You do have something I want.”

I swallow. “And what is that?”

“Your hand.”

“My what?”

“Your hand,” he repeats before cutting his gaze back up to mine. “In marriage.”