Heart in my mouth, my whole body inwardly cringes as I sit back on the sofa, toes curling into the high-pile rug.

Miles leans against the TV console in front of me.

Everything he does is magnified; hand reaching into black sweatpants, the sound of the plastic film on a fresh pack of Marlboro being torn open, the snap of his Zippo, the roll of flesh against metal, the noise of air being sucked through the lit end of his cigarette.

I don't dare say anything.

He rubs a hand down his face, shaking it disbelievingly as he exhales. I can't look at him any longer, pulling his t-shirt down over my legs.

This isn't how I wanted him to find out.

Not at all.

I should've done it sooner.

I look towards the balcony, out at grey skies, the soft babble of the TV in the background. When I look back at Miles he's focused intently on me.

"You've been lyin' to me all this time."

It's not really a question, it's more a statement.

I swallow thickly, and before I can say anything else, he's already speaking.

"I need you to be completely honest with me, right now, cus I'm… I feel like a fuckin' idiot here."

His voice is strained, like he's doing his best to keep his temper in check.

"I never wanted to lie to you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

A scathing laugh escapes him.

"But you've been doin' it anyway?"

"That's not… that's—none of this was my choice. None of it! I was just a little kid. I couldn't tell you the whole truth. I told you what I could. More than I should've. I'm not supposed to tell anyone anything. I'm supposed to be dead."

I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice. My fists clench at my sides. It sounds ridiculous, the stuff of shitty movies. Laughable.

Miles's eyes are hard, his jaw working over, knee bouncing.

"Were you ever gonna tell me? Or just carry on pretending you're someone you're not?"

"I'm not pretending anything!" I snap frustratedly. "I am who I am. It's just a different name. It's as simple as that."

"It's not as simple as that!" he says harshly. "You're fuckin' crazy if you think it is. Were you ever gonna tell me? Huh?"

I brush back my hair, pulling it into a bun on top of my head, flushing with heat, anger buzzing in my veins.

"This was what I wanted to tell you about. When I said I wasn't ready yet. I talked about it with Ida, like, yesterday—not the specifics but… you don't—" I sigh annoyed with myself for stumbling over my words.

I need him to understand right now, but I'm not doing a great job of explaining myself.

"You're the only person I've ever considered telling," my voice wobbles. "Do you have any idea what it's like? How much it eats away at me? That my whole life is built on this huge fucking lie? I told you—it's not like I wanted any of this, it's not like I had a choice in it."

He's pacing now, up and down in front of the TV, frustration evident in every step. There's a long pause again, as I watch him, warily.

"You know who your dad is though? Right? You know this makes you..." He curses, stress breaking out on his face. "Fuck."

"Of course I know who he is. Why do you think I don't have nothin' to do with him! I told you that, that night by the motel. We don't speak! I have no relationship with him, at all. It makes me nothing."

"You're wrong there, it makes you somethin'. I want you to be fuckin' with me so bad right now, Mia," he says a note of desperation in his voice. "But everythin' adds up. Everythin' you've told me fits. Your old man in jail, your mom, you livin' in Queens, you getting shot…"

He inhales deeply again, his voice low. "Who else knows?"

I look down at my hands, twisting them in my lap.

"My Papà and a guy called Mauro. My Nonna did, but she's not here anymore… and now you."

"Papà," Miles repeats under his breath humorlessly. He's quiet. "No one else?"

I shake my head. "Not that I know of," I whisper. Then, "You can't tell anyone. No one can know. I wasn't supposed to know. It was made clear to me when I found out what he'd done, who I was—am, whatever, that there are people out there who'd want me dead."

When he looks up at me, his expression is pained. He runs a hand through his hair.

"Who's Mauro?" he probes.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No, I—I've got some stuff. Like my real birth certificates and stuff. There was a card which says I need to call Mauro if I'm—if there's trouble. I think... the other day—"

I tell him about the guy following me, about the note from Papà.

"You confronted him?" Miles says appalled. "Why the fuck didn't you call me? What if it was some sicko? Jesus, Mia, it's like you're just fuckin' askin' for trouble, pulling shit like that!" He leans forward stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table between us.

"I wasn't sure and by the time I was, it was too late! You might've been ages away, anyway!" I say defensively, throwing my hands up. "You can't be there all the time."

"Show me," he demands, folding his arms. "Show me the note."

I fetch the folded paper from my bag, passing it to him apprehensively. He studies it and then looks up at me from under his hair.

"You can read this."

"Yeah," I admit reluctantly.

"All this time you've understood everything?" he asks quietly, his face stormy.

I just nod, there's no point in denying anything anymore even if it makes him angrier. He blows out a long breath, hanging his head in his hands swearing, before pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, Italian feeling clumsy in my mouth from years of disuse. "I'm really, really sorry. I wanted to tell you so bad."

He looks up finally and I can't read him. He doesn't make any acknowledgement of my apology.

"He keep tabs on you? Your dad?"

"Not since my Nonna died. The shit I pulled after I found out everything, he'd have stepped in if he cared. That's the first contact I've had since I was, like, thirteen. Nonna would speak to him, once or twice a month but I never. I thought I saw him, that day I visited Luke—he saw all of that if it was him."

Miles starts up his pacing again and I can only watch him as the silence deepens.

"Wouldn't take him long to find out what the deal was with you and Luke if he's still got contacts. If he got a hold of your statement… No way he'd let that shit go."

Luke's face appears on the TV behind him again and I suck in a sharp breath. He's dead. He's dead and… and "You put a hit out on him… please don't lie to me, I heard you."

Miles glances behind him, straightening. "Fine. Yeah," he admits. "He deserved it. Whatever sentence he was gonna get would never be long enough. What he did... It wasn't carried out though, some other fucker got to him before."

"So it wasn't you?"

His cell blares and he fishes it out of his pocket before ignoring it.

"No. I'd bet my life on it being your old man though."

"He doesn't care! I just told you. He killed my Mamma and faked my death. He lied to my Nonna about what he did right up until she died! She made me talk to him on the phone for years knowin' what he did!"

Miles shakes his head. "That don't make sense. Why'd he go to all the effort..." He groans. "You got no idea how much this complicates things."

"It doesn't have to."

"It's not that simple. I told you," he says aggravated. "I run in similar circles. You gotta know that? I know you're not stupid. There's a reason your Papà is known, he upset a lot of people back in the day, before my time, but still."

His cell goes off again. "I gotta get this," he says, tiredly. "Stay here. We're not finished."

Answering it snappily, he walks away, out of the apartment, probably so I can't eavesdrop anymore, the door slamming shut behind him.

I switch off the news, unable to look at Luke's face again, a mixture of feelings swelling up every time they run the report. Guilt, relief, more guilt, sadness. Forcing myself up, I busy myself clearing up the smashed bowl and cereal, trying to distract myself.

When Miles is still not back after half an hour I drag myself into the shower, mind running away under a steady stream of hot water. I don't know how long I stand there, staring into nothingness, going over and over and over the same things in my head until I have to lean against the cold tiles for support.

Luke. Miles. Luke. Papà. Miles. Miles. Luke. Miles. Papà. Nonna. Luke. Miles.

Fuck. I feel sick, the kind of sick that rolls in my stomach and crawls my throat until I'm hunched over porcelain, hurling my guts up.

Brushing my teeth I wipe away the condensation on the mirror, staring at myself; paler than usual, a slight sheen to my skin from throwing up, a sticky, sweaty feeling back on my skin.

Luke is dead and Miles knows and it's all just a fucking mess.

It doesn't take much for me to throw-up again.

There's a soft knock at the door and I close my eyes, hands clinging to the counter before washing my mouth out. Miles calls my name through the door asking whether I'm OK.

The time on my cell tells me he's been gone at least a couple of hours now and I wonder what the hell he's been doing.

I unlock the door, pulling it open, towel clinging to wet skin as he leans against the doorjamb, his eyes searching mine, a frown on his face.

"Were you throwin' up?"

I lower my eyes to the floor. "Um, yeah. Just—everything… I'm... You were gone for a while," I mumble as I edge past him, my worries from the last hour spilling over into words.

I feel like everything's been blown apart and I'm just sailing through the air right now with no idea where I'm going to land.

Everything's up to him.

And he's made no indication of how this changes things; if this changes things.

I desperately don't want it to change things.

"Needed to clear my head."

I get that. I can understand. If it were me, I'd be a hell of a lot more pissed off then he is right now.

I can feel him watching me as I pull on lacy panties and a matching bra, and for the first time in a while, I feel self-conscious. He sits down on the edge of the bed as I brush out wet hair in the mirror.

"Are you mad?" I ask his reflection, my eyes filling with tears. "I really don't want you to be mad. I get it if you are. I should've told you myself. You shouldn't have found out like that. I'm sorry. But I—I really don't want this to change us. I'm still me. And you know me better than- better than anyone."

I turn to him, leaning against the dresser, waiting, anxiously.

He rubs his hand through his stubble. "Am I mad? I'm not gonna lie; I was, yeah. This is some crazy fuckin' shit. All this time I thought you were… But I—you're right. I've been thinkin' it over and this ain't your fault. And I get it. You're just doin' what you've always been told. And I doubt you were told wrong. Your old man didn't become who he was by not havin' any fuckin' sense."

He leans back and jerks his head. "C'mere."

I bite my lip, walking towards him, hands moving over his shoulders, his coming to rest on the backs of my thighs.

"You could be with someone with way less baggage. I'm such a mess, it's not even funny," I tell him, fingertips dancing and smoothing over the seams on his t-shirt.

"You want that?"

My eyes jerk to his.

"No! Of course not. I'm just—just sayin'. I—I want to be with you, you know that. I just don't want to lose you over this," I say, unable to keep the distress that's twisting my insides from spilling out.

"Jesus. This ain't gonna make me leave you, Mia, I need some time to fuckin' digest it but I'm—I'm in this with you, OK?"

He reaches up, a tender kiss on my lips, tension seeping away as I melt against him.

"You gonna speak to him- your dad?" he asks me searchingly.

I've thought about it but I keep coming to the same conclusion, over and over again. So I shake my head.

"Nothing's changed. I read his court case... it was solid. His prints on the gun he used. I'd just tell him the same thing I told him the last time we spoke, so no. I don't have anythin' to say to him."

"If that's how you feel."

"I do." He's still frowning. "What? Why are you lookin' like that?"

"I dunno, somethin' 'bout it all makes no sense to me. Unless it wasn't him. Evidence though, that's hard to fake." He shrugs it off. "Look, I got some stuff I need to do now, but I wanted to—Just… stay here. Alright?"

"I gotta go to work later." I chew on my lip.

"Call in sick or somethin'. We should talk about this more."

"But—"

"No buts."

"You can't tell anyone," I implore. "No one. Promise me you won't. Promise me I can trust you with this? No one knows, no one can know; if anyone else finds out—"

I think he kisses me again just to shut me up.

"I'm not goin' to tell no one, Mia. You can trust me."

"Are you really not mad at me?" My eyes swim with tears because I really don't want him to be mad with me.

He sighs. "No."

I kiss him hard; all over him, hands in his hair, pressing myself as close as I can get, a silent thank you. He groans when I bite his lower lip, fingers tightening on my hips.

"You're makin' it real fuckin' hard to leave," he mumbles.

"So don't leave," I plead, kissing him again, straddling his lap in a fog of desperation; I really don't want to be alone right now, not with the endless thoughts flying around my head.

"I got to," he says reluctantly. "Y'know I'd love nothing more than to spend the rest of the day with you."

He gets dressed properly and when he finally leaves, he's looking at me with a look I can't quite place.

"I'll see you later, OK?"

I nod. "OK." My voice is small.

"Stay here," he stresses before the front door of his apartment closes.

***

I spend the rest of the day wandering around miserably, trapped and restless, my mind drifting to places it shouldn't.

How Luke died.

Who did it?

I may hate him, but I loved him once. He may have deserved to rot, but I don't know whether he deserved to die.

And now Miles knows everything.

Everything, everything.

I wonder whether he was lying when he says he isn't mad. I think I'd be if our roles were reversed.

I phone Carter when it's late afternoon, but he chews me out, unsympathetic.

"If I don't see you here at nine p.m. on the dot, you're gonna be looking somewhere else for work," he barks as I wince. "I don't care if you're dying. I need staff tonight, it's a big night."

Eyes red-rimmed, light-headed from not eating, I drag myself in. Carter's big night is actually Vince's big night; some over the top party to celebrate Bliss officially changing hands. I'd forgotten about it with everything else going on until he'd said.

Tara corners me by my locker, leaning against it wearing the tiniest shimmery thong and bra set, a body chain layered over the top. I shove my bag in, pulling out heels and dropping them to the floor with a thud.

"You alright, babe? I didn't think you'd be here today after everything…" Her hand finds my arm and she rubs it soothingly. I know she means Luke but my insides lurch at her choice of words as if now my secret is out everyone else knows too.

I shrug and offer her a watery smile, adjusting my tits in the low cut red dress I'm wearing.

"Yeah, well, Carter was having none of it and to be honest, I need a distraction," I admit. "I can't stop thinking about it." It and everything else. Tara smiles sympathetically, her arms wrapping around me in a hug.

"Oh, babe. Just let me know if you need anything, I'm sure Vince won't mind you joining Miles later."

"Think Carter would have somethin' to say if I did that."

"Fuck Carter!" Tara tells me. "He's hardly gonna pick a fight with Miles, is he?"

I smile, but it's painfully fake on my face. I messaged Miles when I was on my way here, telling him I was going to work, but he's not responded. I don't even know whether he's going to be here. He never mentioned it earlier.

My stomach twists at the thought of earlier; of all the shit that's happened today and I dry retch behind my hand, waving Tara's concern away.

"I'm fine," I reassure her even though we both know I'm lying. She leaves me reluctantly and I lean against the locker with my head tilted back, metal cold against the bare skin of my back.

I need to get a grip.

***

Dancing my way through the crowds with a tray of drinks, I reach where Vince's sat in the biggest of the curved seating areas out on the floor. He's surrounded by men I've never seen before, Tara on his lap, smoking a Cuban; shirt half undone, basking like a King; everything at his feet.

Vince barely gives me a passing glance and the only other man I recognize is JJ. There's a certain rough and readiness about the people Vince has here tonight. They're not like our usual crowd; we look after high-rollers, minor celebrities, career-driven businessmen; men who want and can afford a different class of strip club. This is not them, not by a long shot.

It's all I need to know to feel uneasy. The fact I'm run-off-my-feet busy keeps my mind from straying to James, but not Miles, because he should be here and he's not. I hope he's not too annoyed with me for coming in to work, but I still need this job—maybe not as much as before but I still want to pay my way.

"Mia," JJ greets. He's been slightly less leery since I removed the bullet from his arm, but tonight it doesn't stop his eyes from moving down to my tits.

"Hey."

"Aren't you gonna introduce me, JJ?" a guy next to him says, looking me up and down with a smirk. He must be close to forty, with gelled hair, and arrogance, a shake to his hand as he reaches for a drink and downs it in one, not breaking eye contact.

"Rocco, Mia. Mia, Rocco." I acknowledge him with a quick smile and pick up the empty tray, ready to head back to the bar.

"Why don't you stay a little while?" Rocco says, patting the slither of space next to him.

"Sorry, I'm working."

"C'mon, sure you can spare me a few minutes, pretty girl."

I glance at JJ who looks mildly amused.

"If you want company, there's plenty of girls here; you tell me what kind of girl and I'll be happy to fix you up," I tell him, sugary sweet.

"I like the look of you."

"Not an option, sorry."

My patience is wearing thin right now, his persistence grating. Normally, I can deal with it, but not today. Today I'm five seconds away from snapping and telling him to go fuck himself.

Instead, I turn to JJ. "You know if Miles's gonna be here?" I ask him.

JJ shrugs. "Yeah, should be."

I smile then. "Cool."

I leave Rocco with a pinched expression on his face.

By the time I actually see Miles slip into the booth a half-hour later, settling between Vince and JJ, I feel relieved. Things are getting rowdier as the night progresses. Sam laying into Paul about how some of the customers are treating the girls and at this point, I just really want to go home.

I thought this would be good for me—normality in the midst of chaos and it's worked for a while, but not anymore.

When I look up Miles's dark eyes are zeroed in on me. I tilt my head slightly, wanting him to come talk to me or something, but he shakes his head minutely. He's made no attempt to make conversation since he arrived and it roots my uneasiness a little deeper.

I turn on my heel, confused; not sure why he's not even trying to acknowledge me. I'm his girlfriend. At least that's how I thought we left things.

***

"What are you doin' back here?" I say startled as Miles appears by my side in the dressing room, just as I'm about to take my break.

"Making sure you're OK. Didn't I tell you to stay at home?"

Guilt swamps me. He did. And I didn't.

I fish my cigarettes out of my locker, closing it after I've slid one out.

"I tried callin' in sick but Paul was being a dick about it. Besides, just felt like I was going crazy being on my own. Overthinking everything. Needed something to take my mind off things. I forgot about this thing Vince has going on, though."

"Me too," Miles says tiredly. "Load of shit."

"So, um, why are you—why are you ignoring me out there?" I ask him, awkwardly, feeling a rush of insecurity. I look down at my feet, folding my arms. "You embarrassed or somethin'?"

He actually laughs and I narrow my eyes. "No. Fuck, no! It ain't like that. You remember what I said? Couple of weeks ago, about not wantin' people to know you're important to me? Well, that."

He draws me close, hands at the small of my back. I get it; I think. I come in closer, playing with a button on his shirt.

"I could never be embarrassed by you," he mumbles, hands cupping my tits, thumbs brushing over nipples, mouth hot and heavy on mine. I let myself get carried away, kissing him, letting his hands travel, a rush of want flooding me. "I'd take you right here if you'd let me," he says. "Push these panties to the side." His fingers find the edge of them, teasing. "Make you feel real good."

"Urgh. Don't say things like that, you'll get me in trouble," I groan wiping my lipstick from his lips with my thumb. He kisses it and then me, again until I'm lifted against the lockers, him grinding into me.

We're interrupted by some of the girls entering the dressing room, glancing between us, then giggling.

He lets me down slowly.

"Uh. I um..." I gesture to my cigarette, pulling my dress back down. "I've gotta go smoke this before I run out of break. I'll be out again after."

I walk him back to the door that leads out onto the floor, feeling happier.

"Might wanna wipe my lipstick off your face again," I say after one more searing kiss.

He grimaces, wiping at his mouth. "I'll see you back out there."

"Sure." I turn towards the door that leads to the outside alley.

"Mia," Miles calls after me, hand finding his hair. "I—"

He's interrupted by Aaliyah coming through the door.

"There you are! Share that with me?" she says, nodding at my cigarette, hooking her arm through mine.

"Later," I mouth at Miles.

***

Rocco tries to engage me when I come off my break, trapping me by the bar when I'm getting more drinks. I shut him down, not so sweetly this time.

"Look, I don't know what's so hard for you to understand. I'm working, and even if I wasn't, I'm seeing someone. There's girls available if you want some one-on-one time."

I gesture around at the strippers working the poles on stage; the numerous girls prowling for their next dance.

"Who lets you work here?" Rocco sneers, trailing me as I head back towards where Miles's sat, looking over, a tick in his jaw that lets me know he isn't happy right now. "He not got the dolla to keep you happy?"

I ignore him pointedly as he slumps back in his seat, flashing Miles a smile when he brushes his fingertips against mine as I pass him his drink. When I look up Rocco is looking between us and I kinda hope he gets the hint.

An older man has joined them whilst I've been on my break, sat in deep conversation with Vince. Salt and pepper hair, deep wrinkles lining his forehead; he's probably, with the exception of Vince, the only man who fits into our usual customer category. Rings adorning fingers, expensive Rolex on his wrist, his suit immaculately fitted, he's obviously important, two men dressed in black, like bookends either side of the booth. Security, if I had to guess.

I try not to let my gaze linger on him for too long, but he's too wrapped up in his conversation to spare me any attention.

An hour later as I set down more drinks he briefly looks up to acknowledge me, a curt thanks, muttered. I'm about to step away when his head turns back rapidly and it'd almost be comical if it weren't for the look on his face.

I smile politely clutching my tray, but he flies to his feet, paling, hand catching my wrist as I flinch, the metal of his rings digging into flesh, his grip uncomfortably tight.

"What're you—" I begin alarmed but he cuts me off. The last name I expect, falling from his mouth.

"Elena?"