I reached for my purse. Realized it had slipped off the seat into the floorboard. When I bent down to grab it, my hand brushed against something jammed in the seatbelt slot.
A torn condom wrapper.
Slick, cheap foil. Lube grease smeared my fingers.
I stared at it, numb.
Zoraya’s tight dress. Her flushed cheeks.
The fake concern. Zeus slurring, pretending to be drunk. That call earlier—his voice full of hesitation and bullshit. And just like that, I knew.
Didn’t even know where the hell to begin.
Zeus and I’d been together since freshman year. Back then, I was grinding shifts at a 24-hour diner a few blocks from campus, scraping together tuition one plate at a time.
Zeus?
He was already Mafia royalty. Loaded, tall, and infuriatingly persistent. The first night he walked into the diner, he ordered the greasy lamb gyros and damn near gagged on them. But he kept coming back. Every single night. For an entire half year. Said he had a “business reason.” Funny. He was trying to get my number.
The night I finally caved and agreed to date him?
He scarfed down three gyros like a man on a dare—then puked his guts out in the alley behind the place. To this day, the smell of tzatziki sauce makes him gag.