The Cleanup Girl: A Dark Mafia Romance

Aubergine.

I was sweating inside my hazmat suit as I looked myself over.

Two pairs of nitrile gloves. Safety glasses. Rubber boots.

Buckets lined with biohazard bags sat at my feet with enough absorbing granules to bury a small army.

The body was long gone. Just blood left behind. And a lot of it.

Most of it coagulated into dark, tacky pools, but a fresh sheen still clung to the walls. Even in the dim lighting of the warehouse, I could make out an outline where the tarp had been laid out.

It had been a gruesome night.

“You gonna be able to handle this mess without your dad?” Michael asked, now standing beside me.

I glanced over. The middle Moretti brother was dressed down today. Jeans. Black T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders that I studied for a few extra seconds. He took really good care of himself.

Judging by the blood splattered across the front of his jeans and the scabs healing over his knuckles— he used those muscles, too.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just gonna take me a little longer.” I pointed toward the wall where the splatters were.

“Why aren’t you guys getting bigger tarps if you're gonna be spraying it around like that?”

“I don’t know.” He scratched the back of his neck while surveying the extent of the mess. For a second, he actually looked guilty. “But, um, I’ll look into it.”

His gaze drifted over the blood again. “I’d offer to help, but he’s got another one coming in."

Michael reached into his wallet that was in his back pocket. I watched him thumb through a thick stack of hundreds before peeling off ten bills.

A thousand dollars.

Two hundred more than we agreed on.

“Oh.” I blinked as he handed it to me. “Thanks, Mike.”

Half of my Dad's rent payment sat folded in my gloved hand.

Dad couldn’t work, chemo had knocked him flat this week. So that meant paying two separate rents. On top of that, I had the alimony, the lawyer bills… oh yeah, and the cost of just fucking living.

This was why I came back to cleaning.

Not because I missed the Moretti's or the smell of excrement and death.

“It’s good to see you again, Abby.” He gave me one last apologetic nod before disappearing deeper into the dark warehouse.

I planted my hands on my hips and surveyed the crime scene. It was going to be a lot of work, but at least it was on polished concrete.

I hauled over one of the buckets and got to work.

Dad taught me that cleaning up crime scenes was just basic chemistry and a good scrubbing arm.

The guys usually… uh, worked on tarps. Easy clean up. You wrapped up the body, tied it off and hauled it away.

If they remembered to stay on the tarp, there wasn’t much left to do besides disinfecting and bleaching away any residual evidence. And anyone could handle that.

Then... there were nights like this. Gore everywhere, red splatters.

Clearly, someone got out of control. Frankly, the less I knew, the better.

I sprinkled coagulating powder over a chunk of tissue. It hardened fast.

Most kids learned how to drive a car when they’re sixteen. But me? Sure, by day, I was learning to drive. But at night, I learned how to clean up murder scenes.

By the time I was in college, I could handle the big ones on my own. The gore didn’t bother me, I grew up with it, much in the same way a mortician wasn't bothered by dead bodies.

The only thing I never got used to was the smell. It was more pungent with heat.

Something about excrement with the smell of death and heavy chemicals… I wanted to barf every time.

Vaporub beneath my nose worked decently, but the nausea was always there in the back of my throat. What kept me from actually hurling was the fact I would have to be the one to clean it up.

I flipped on the warehouse floodlights.

Step one.

Get the chunks out and shoveled into biohazard buckets.

Step two.

Spray and scrub everything down. At least twice. Peroxide cleaned up blood really well.

Bleach after.

Outside, tires crunched over gravel. A black SUV rolled to a stop near the bay doors.

I kept scrubbing as one door opened, then another.

The men stopped talking. From across the warehouse, I noticed Michael straighten a little.

Polished shoes clicked across the concrete. Slow, methodical steps.

I glanced over.

Nicola Moretti stepped out of the darkness in a black suit that probably cost more than my car.

Silver rings glinted across nearly every finger. Tattoos disappeared beneath his cuffs.

I let out a soft breath through pursed lips. And goddamn, his face was a work of art.

As a teen, my Dad loved when I volunteered to come along for cleanups. He saw it as quality bonding time, fucked up as it was. And honestly, I did enjoy our time together.

But the truth was, I went because I knew Nicola would be there.

It had been fifteen years since I last saw him, but he somehow looked better.

Wide shoulders, dark hair swept over either side of his forehead. He wasn't a bodybuilder like Michael. But he was elegant, sleek.

He had a face that belonged on the cover of GQ and a pair of hazel eyes that had almost certainly watched people die without losing sleep.

The man had presence.

And it wasn’t just me. Half the warehouse seemed to breathe differently once he walked in.

He surveyed the blood. His gaze drifted over me for barely a second, then settled on the man being dragged from the SUV.

“You know...” His voice carried easily through the warehouse, deep and smooth. “Contrary to popular opinion, we don’t actually like spending our Friday nights dealing with fuckheads like you.”

The corners of my mouth twitched. God, that voice. I always liked listening to him talk, even when he was being obnoxious.

The middle-aged man being dragged across the warehouse stumbled to his knees.

His wrists were zip-tied behind his back. Blood dripped from one nostril, leaving little red dots across the concrete as Michael shoved him forward.

Nicola looked down at him for a long moment. He didn't seem angry, or impatient. He was just... studying.

“Friday night is when the boys here go clubbing. Well, not Mike. This is prime eBay bidding time for my brother.” Nicola gestured lazily.

“The point I’m trying to make, Daniel, Danny—can I call you Danny?—our time is valuable. And I’m fucking furious I’ve gotta spend it with a dipshit who thought going behind my family's back was a good idea.”

“I didn’t mean it, Nicky,” Daniel cried.

“I know, I know... Hey, I believe you.” Nicola's voice was soft. He crouched down, and rested his forearms on his knees like they were about to have a heart-to-heart.

I could tell Daniel was hopeful, his body seemed to loosen up.

“I liked you, too.” Nicola sounded genuinely disappointed. “And maybe I would’ve spared you. Left you with, I don’t know, six fingers instead of ten.”

I watched him wiggle his fingers for theatrical emphasis. “But I’ve gotta keep up appearances. I’ve gotta dig down and get mean, you know?”

“You don’t have to,” Daniel whimpered. “Please, Nicky.”

“Please?” Nicola repeated the word with mock surprise. “Do you think I’ve never heard a man say ‘please’ before? Go buy yourself a goddamn thesaurus.”

I scrubbed peroxide into the floor in methodical circles, pretending not to listen. It wasn’t working, though. I was fucking entranced by this man like I was sixteen again.

Nicola leaned forward, taking Daniel's face in one hand until his lips puckered like a fish.

“You look at Mike and you tell him you’re sorry. He could be missing out on some good fucking cards right now.” Nicola looked over his shoulder. “Like a holographic Charizard or something.”

When Michael shook his head, Nicola frowned. “A, uh... Blastoise?”

“No. It’s the shadowless Raichu card I’m after.” Michael's gaze drifted wistfully toward the ceiling. “My fucking white whale.”

“I don’t think Danny here’s read Moby Dick, Mike.” Nicola patted Daniel’s cheek. “Save the good references for someone who appreciates them.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling. That was fucked up.

Nicola stood and smoothed a wrinkle from his jacket.

“Anyway,” he said. “I feel like I should be upfront. I won’t dick around with you. You’re gonna die tonight, Danny.”

The man began to chant to God in between sobs, but Nicola kept going.

“But first, you gotta tell me what you said to the Ferraro kid.”

Danny started crying harder and I didn't find it funny anymore. I wished I’d packed my noise-canceling headphones.

“We were just bullshitting with each other,” he sobbed. “He was bragging. And I was trying to sound... big, you know? I said I knew where you kept the unlaundered cash.”

Michael groaned. “Oh, fuck me.”

“But he’s the only one I told!” Daniel cried out.

“Do you really think Ferraro didn’t immediately run and tell every other asshole in his family?” Nicola pinched the bridge of his nose. “Now you’ve given me another job to do.”

He rose and started pacing. “I’ve gotta move my money. I’ve gotta make sure the FBI doesn’t decide to crawl up my ass and catch me while doing it, too.”

He paused. “You ever been audited by the IRS, Danny?”

“I... I don’t even know what that word means.”

“It’s a fate worse than death. How do I properly explain this–”

“Hey.” Michael pointed toward me with his thumb over his shoulder. “Doesn’t Abby work in finance?”

I froze.

“Abby?” Nicola repeated, surprised.

“Yeah. She’s just over there.”

Oh, Jesus. Don’t involve me.

I hunched my shoulders on instinct and vigorously scrubbed at the concrete like my life depended on it. Maybe if I looked busy enough, he wouldn’t bug me.

Black shoes reflected in the overhead lights and stopped beside me.

Fuck.

“Aubergine Martin.”

So much for invisibility.

Slowly, I stood and removed my safety glasses before tugging down my hood and mask.

"Whoa.” Nicola pressed a hand dramatically against his chest as he took a half-step backward. “You are under there. Sorry for not noticing you beneath all the...”

He gestured vaguely toward me. “PPE.”

“No offense taken. Um, hi. Long time no see.”

He grinned at me and my insides immediately liquefied. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m worried my skin might dissolve if I did.”

A sickening crack echoed across the warehouse. Daniel screamed.

The sound bounced off the concrete walls and I grimaced.

Nicola barely turned his head, looking mildly annoyed. “For fuck’s sake, Mike, gag him. I’m trying to have a conversation.”

Michael stuffed what looked suspiciously like a wad of fast-food napkins into the man's mouth. The screaming turned muffled.

When Nicola looked back at me, his eyes drifted over the oversized hazmat suit in slow motion. “You’re looking good.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m wearing garbage bags, Nicky.”

He smiled with waggling eyebrows. “And, boy, do you wear them!”

Heat crawled into my cheeks despite myself as I fought back a laugh. God damnit. The man could flirt with a brick wall.

I watched women practically trip over themselves for his attention. Bless a man with charisma and he’d do well. Bless him with looks and money, too?

The universe had really stacked the deck for Nicola.

“How long have you been back?” he asked. “Doing cleanup, I mean.”

“Just today, actually.” The admission was strangely embarrassing. “Dad’s not feeling well, and...”

Nicola sobered and he nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I heard.”

Of course he had. Nicola Moretti knew everything about everyone in his territory.

“How’s he holding up?” he asked.

“One more round of chemo next week. We’re hoping this one sticks.” I smiled weakly.

His gaze lingered on me, and his voice turned strangely quiet. “I hope it does, too.”

I faltered. It was such a simple thing to say. No grand speech. No false optimism or big bravado. Just... sincere.

That was another dangerous thing about Nicola. He made people feel like he actually cared. Maybe he did.

But that was part of the problem. It was awfully hard to remember a man was capable of ordering executions when he asked about your father’s chemotherapy. When he looked at you with soft eyes.

Behind us, Daniel let out another muffled cry.

“I’m hoping to get some sleep tonight.” I tilted my head toward the ever-growing crime scene his brother was making. “So maybe don’t make a big mess? Or at least keep it on the tarp. Please.”

A grin spread across his face. “On my honor.” He raised three fingers in a Boy Scout salute.

I had a hard time believing this man wore a scout uniform and marched around in the wilderness.

“Well,” he said, and slipped his hands back into his pockets. “I should let you get back to work.”

He took two steps away. Then stopped as something occurred to him. He half turned, his shoes squeaked on the polished concrete.

“You should let me buy you breakfast after this.”

For a moment I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. I blinked. “What happened to your Friday night clubbing?”

“Too late for that now. You liked that diner down on Madison." He had good memory. “And you’ll probably be hungry,” he added.

I looked into the biohazard bucket sitting beside me, half full. My stomach churned.

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

He offered me one last smile. Not the dazzling, performative one he gave everyone else, but the softer one I remembered from years ago. The one he’d given me when we were lost in conversation, when it felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.

Like no time had passed at all.

“Think it over,” he said, then turned and walked back toward his men.

I watched him go for exactly three seconds, almost wistful.

Get it together, Abby.

“Mike, let’s wrap this up,” he said.

I sighed, tugged my hood back over my head, and pulled my mask into place. I picked up my scrub brush.

It was going to be a long night.