Maid for the Hitman: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Flora Ferrari (summer beach reads TXT) 📖

I walk across our small two bedroom apartment, the rental we’ve been in for four years now. Mom and I have moved homes a lot over the years, owing it to the fact that Mom never seems to have enough money.

She’s a painter who never developed any real-world working skills, and so she’s been forced to work a series of odd jobs just to make ends meet.

I wanted to change that with college.

Fine, it was community college.

Fine, it wasn’t Harvard or Yale or Princeton.

But I was still eager to make a change.

Maybe I still can.

Once she gets better.

As I pull on my shoes, I smile wryly at that phrase ricocheting around my mind.

Once she gets better has become like a spell in my mind, something I scream again and again in an effort to convince myself it’s real. It’s going to happen.

“She’s going to recover,” I murmur now, heading for the door.

I ignore the table that sits next to the door, the aqua-blue paint chipped. I ignore it first because the memory makes me want to cry all over again. I remember how thrilled Mom was when we found it at Goodwill, how determined she was to paint it in elaborate patterns.

That was the day before we got the news.

But just as knife-sharp, stabbing me right to my emotional core, is the unopened pile of bills and warnings that glare at me like accusations. I know that we haven’t got long before we get evicted.

I’m trying my best with my waitressing job, but there are only so many hours I can work. And I have to be around to take care of mom, too.

I sigh, forcing a smile to my face as I open the door and walk down the hallway.

Smile your troubles away, mom was fond of saying before her illness struck. Everything will work out in the end.

I just wish I could believe her.

The day is incongruously bright, the afternoon sun blaring down at me. I was supposed to be at the restaurant for the day, but at the last minute, my boss called and told me that I wasn’t needed.

That’s the sort of thing bosses get away with when they have too many staff and all the options in the world.

I shake my head, making my smile purposefully wider as I walk down the city street. It’s as loud and vibrant as it usually is, with cars honking and music blaring from apartment windows.

I keep my head down as I walk past the notorious drug dealer corner.

The men – and boys – who stand here have never bothered me before. They’ve never catcalled me or made me feel uncomfortable, but I think that has something to do with how quickly I walk by, eyes ducked, letting them silently know that I mean no harm.

Finally, I make it to the convenience store. The glass door is cracked from where somebody tried to break in a few days ago. Mr. Pham has experienced the problem before, and so paid extra to have reinforced glass installed.

“Afternoon, Rosie,” he says as I walk down the aisle.

“Hey, Mr. Pham,” I respond.

The store is empty and immensely clean. Despite the area we live in, Mr. Pham takes pride in keeping the place spotless. With the sun beaming through the window combining with the electric lights, it sparkles.

“Your mother is doing better, I hope?”

“Getting there,” I tell him. “You know how it is.”

“Yes, it’s very sad,” he says, nodding solemnly. “My father…” He clasps his hand to his chest. “It’s very sad.”

I pick up the bottle of lemonade and carry it over to the counter.

“She’ll get better,” I tell him firmly.

“I know, I know,” he says, nodding fiercely.

He taps a few buttons on the checkout and then tells me the price. I reach into my purse, rooting around for change. I feel like the biggest failure in the universe as I count out the pennies, and then stare at the checkout’s readout and see that I’m three pennies short.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, grabbing the lemonade bottle. “I’ll take it back.”

Mr. Pham darts his hand forward, shaking his head just as vigorously as he was nodding a few moments ago. He grabs the bottle and pulls it over to him, slipping it into a bag before I can argue.

“No, Rosie,” he says. “Take it. Take care of your mother.”

I smile and blink away budding tears, hating how easily they rise in my eyes these days, like I’m spending every second of the day on the verge of an eruption.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “Thank you so much.”

I leave the store and make my way back up the street.

As I’m passing by the alleyway between the store and the apartment blocks, a noise comes to me, sort of muffled. I know I should ignore it, but I can hear words in the muffled hard-to-hear noise.

“Help,” somebody is wheezing. “Please, please, help.”

A voice screams in my head to walk away. The last thing I need to do is play the Good Samaritan, especially in this neighborhood.

I feel like I’m on autopilot as I walk over to the trash can.

The voice is coming from inside.

I reach over to the lid instinctively, try to lift it, but somebody has secured a padlock onto it and it doesn’t budge. It just rattles.

“Yes, please,” the man inside gasps. “Before they come back.”

“Before who comes back?” I ask.

“Vito,” the man whines. “Vito Franzese.”

Suddenly, all the blood in my body freezes in my veins.

Vito Franzese has been all over the news lately.

He’s the acting boss of one of the city’s biggest crime families, currently at war with another family because his dad is in jail.

“Please,” the man whimpers. “Help me.”

I should run. I know I should run. This has nothing to do with me.

“What did you do?” I demand. “Why are you in there?”

“Nothing, nothing,” the man gasps.

I slam my hand against the metal of the bin, hate rising in me that this man’s putting me in such