No Longer His Ugly Wife

"Flo, table six needs more coffee."

I grabbed the half-empty pot and hurried across the diner floor, dodging a toddler who'd escaped his mother's grasp. My feet ached in the cheap sneakers that had seen better days.

"Coming right up," I called, plastering my customer service smile on my face immediately.

The man at table six barely looked up from his phone as I refilled his cup. No "thank you," not even a nod. Just another invisible service worker in his world. But I was used to it.

"Anything else I can get you?" I asked.

He shook his head without looking up.

"Flora!" Marge, my manager, beckoned from behind the counter. "Your shift ended ten minutes ago. Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

I glanced at the clock above the kitchen door. Crap, I thought.

If I didn't hurry, I'd definitely be late for my night job.

"Thanks, Marge." I untied my apron and stuffed it under the counter. "See you tomorrow."

"Get some rest, honey," she called after me. "You look dead on your feet."

Rest. What a concept, I thought.

I grabbed my bag from the staff room and hurried out the side door into the alley. I breathed in the evening air while allowing it to caress my face. It felt cool against my skin after hours in the stuffy diner. I had exactly forty-five minutes to get across town to the business district for my cleaning job. Not enough time to go home and see Mom first. I had my own apartment but I was staying at hers at the moment.

I pulled out my phone and dialed her number while I quickly walked to the bus stop.

"Hey, Mom," I said when she picked up. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better than yesterday," she said, but the weakness in her voice told me otherwise. "Did you eat something?"

She was always worrying about me when she was the one with stage three kidney disease. "I grabbed a sandwich during my break. Did you take your meds?"

"Yes, doctor," she teased. "All four hundred of them."

"Good. I won't be home until after midnight. There's leftover pasta in the fridge. Don't wait up."

"Flora," she said, and just like I knew it would, her voice turned serious. "You're working too hard. I hate that you—"

"Mom, we've talked about this. It's temporary." The lie rolled easily off my tongue after four years of practice. "Oh, my bus is here. I've got to go. Love you."

I hung up before she could argue and sprinted the last few yards to the bus stop, making it in just as the doors were closing.

Forty minutes later, I walked into the gleaming lobby of Romano Incorporation. The security guard barely glanced at my cleaning company ID badge. I'd been coming here for months, part of the invisible army that swept through the city's office buildings after hours.

"Evening, Frank," I said.

He only grunted in response, his eyes still fixed on whatever game he was playing on his phone.

Some security, I huffed.

I took the service elevator to the 31st floor. Romano Incorporation occupied the last 5 levels. It was some kind of import/export business that could apparently afford premium real estate with harbor views. Must be nice.

The floor was usually empty when I arrived at 8 PM. The executives went home to their mansions while people like me cleaned up after them for minimum wage. But tonight, as the elevator doors opened, I heard voices—angry voices in fact—coming from the main conference room.

I hesitated. Maybe I should start on another floor and come back later. But if I fell behind schedule, I'd miss the last bus and would have to spend money on a taxi, which I couldn't afford.

I decided to clean the executive bathrooms first. They were on the opposite side of the conference room. No one would even notice me.

I pushed my cart quietly down the hallway, passing the conference room. The door was partially open, and through the gap, I could see several men in expensive suits. They were arguing in hushed but intense voices.

Keep your head down, I told myself. Don't look. It's not your business.

But as I passed, a sharp crack split the air, and there it was: a sound I'd only ever heard in movies. A gunshot.

I froze.

"You think you can steal from me?" a deep voice, cold as ice was saying. "From my family?"

I shouldn't look. I should walk away, call the police, do anything but—

I looked.

Through the gap in the door, I saw a man on his knees in the center of the room. Blood soaked the front of his white shirt. His face was filled with terror.

"Dante, please," he begged. "It was a mistake. I can fix it—"

"You've had chances. Three of them." The speaker moved into my line of sight. He was tall and broad-shouldered, in a perfectly tailored black suit. He held a gun with a silencer attached. "The Romano family doesn't give fourth chances."

The kneeling man began to sob. "I have a family—"

"You should have thought of them before you skimmed from my shipments."

I must have made a sound—a gasp, a whimper, something—because suddenly, the man with the gun turned sharply toward the door.

Our eyes met.

His face was the most striking face I'd ever seen. He had a strong jaw, and a straight nose, and his lips were pressed into a hard line. But it was his eyes that paralyzed me. They were dark, almost black, and completely devoid of emotion as they locked onto mine.

I recognized him from the company website and the framed photos in the lobby. He was Dante Romano. The CEO.

For one eternal second, we stared at each other.

Then he raised the gun and pointed it directly at me.

"We have a problem," he said. His voice was calm like he was discussing a minor scheduling conflict and not my imminent death. "Bring her in."

Before I could move, the door swung fully open, and a very large man grabbed my arm. He dragged me into the conference room, my cleaning cart forgotten in the hallway.

"Please," I stammered, "I didn't see anything. I was just cleaning—"

"Shut up." The command wasn't shouted, but it cut through my babbling like a knife.

Dante Romano studied me with those cold eyes. Recognition flickered across his face just before he said, "You're the cleaner."

I nodded frantically. "Yes. Just the cleaner. I clean the bathrooms and hallways, and empty the trash. That's all."

The man on his knees saw his opportunity and lunged toward the door. He didn't make it three steps before another gunshot rang out. He collapsed face-first onto the plush carpet, which began soaking up his blood.

I clapped my hands over my mouth to hold in a scream.

"Now," Dante said, turning back to me as if he hadn't just executed someone, "what exactly did you see?"

My legs gave out, and I would have fallen if the giant holding my arm hadn't kept me upright.

"N-nothing," I whispered. "I swear I didn't see anything."

Dante stepped closer, and I could smell his cologne, something expensive and subtle. He reached out and lifted my chin with the barrel of his gun, forcing me to look at him.

"Don't lie to me..." He paused, looking at my company badge. "Flora Miller. I hate liars more than I hate thieves."

A tear slid down my cheek. "I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

A faint smile touched his lips. "That you were."

He lowered the gun and nodded to the man holding me. "Take her to my office. And someone clean this up before it stains."

"What should we do about her?" Another man gestured toward me.

Dante's eyes never left my face. "I haven't decided yet."

The mountain man dragged me from the room. As we passed my abandoned cleaning cart, I saw my phone sitting exactly where I'd left it. It was my only link to the outside world, to help, and to Mom.

The last thing I heard before being pulled into Dante Romano's private office was his calm voice giving orders about the body on the floor.

And in that moment, I knew with terrible certainty that I might be next.