The Mistress, The Mobster, and Me

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, a scent I’d once associated with cozy mornings and shared secrets, now just made my stomach churn. Derek, bless his apparently non-existent soul, was humming off-key in the kitchen, probably planning his next rendezvous with Rose. Rose. The name itself felt like a bad punchline. I swear, if I had a yen for every time I’d thought about that woman’s face, I’d be richer than the Emperor of Japan. And Dante… Dante was a whole other earthquake rumbling beneath my already unstable life.

My phone buzzed on the bedside table, a tiny vibration that felt like a siren. It was him. “Thinking of you. Miss that smile. Meet me later? Same place?” The usual Dante. Smooth, suggestive, and completely oblivious to the dumpster fire that was my current reality. But then again, maybe he wasn’t oblivious. Maybe he was enjoying the show. The thought made a tiny, rebellious spark ignite somewhere deep inside.