The Mafia's Maid

The lingering ache in my jaw served as a stark reminder of last night. Lucas. Always Lucas. The cuts and bruises that mapped my skin told their own story, a brutal testament to his fury. I lay on the cold, tiled floor, the dawn filtering through the curtains doing little to warm the emptiness inside me.

"I want to break up." The words, whispered yesterday, had been a desperate plea for freedom, and his fist, a brutal reply. Now, in the harsh light of morning, the reality of my situation hit me with the force of a physical blow. I had to leave. Today.

With every strained movement, my body screamed in protest, but my resolve hardened. My phone lay on the kitchen table, a lifeline I hadn't dared to use until now. Shaking hands fumbled for Mary's contact, her name a beacon in the darkness.