I Tried to Hide My Fresh Bruises — The Mafia Boss Said, “Tell Me His Name and I’ll End It.”

I spent 45 minutes on the makeup. Green color corrector for the redness, heavy concealer for the dark purple edges, setting powder to kill the shine. It looked like skin. It felt like a throbbing radioactive secret. I thought I was safe. But when you work for a man who makes a living reading the lies on people's

faces, a cheap drugstore palette won't save you. He didn't ask if I was okay. He just locked his office door and said, "Tell me his name and I'll end it." The pain wasn't a sharp cinematic ache. It was a dull, muddy throb that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. Every time I swallowed, the left side of my throat

caught, a physical reminder of the exact span of Trent's fingers. My thumb reflexively drifted to my neck, hovering a millimeter above the collar of my wool turtleneck. I didn't touch the skin. If I touched it, I might smudge the thick layer of plaster I'd painted on at 6:00 in the morning. I stood on the

subway platform, the damp November cold seeping through the thin soles of my boots. The C train rattled into the station, pushing a wave of stale metallic air over the waiting commuters. I kept my chin tucked. The turtleneck was doing most of the heavy lifting, but the uppermost edge of the bruise, where Trent's thumb had dug into my jawline,

required the kind of heavy-duty camouflage they use on mortuary slabs. My phone vibrated in the pocket of my coat. A short, angry buzz. I didn't have to look at the screen to know who it was. I brought you coffee. That was the text at 7:00 a.m. Where are you? 7:15 a.m. You're really

going to freeze me out after last night? You know how I get when you push me. 8:12 a.m. Tessa, answer me. I'm sorry. I bought those bagels you like. Don't be a 8:30 a.m. I turned the phone off. The silence that followed was a temporary, hollow relief. Trent's apologies were always worse than