Page 6 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

Without turning around from the dual monitors on his desk, Tim hands me a cardboard cup of coffee. He must have seen my reflection through his screens.

I give my usual noncommittal thanks. Every day for the past six months, Tim has had a cup of coffee waiting for me as soon as I step into the office. I’ve taken it, politely said ‘thank you’, and never once told him that I don’t drink coffee.

Tim finally turns around on his ergonomic chair, his striking blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. “Anytime. Are you alright, Addy?” He eyes my damp clothes, and unease settles in my stomach as his gaze lingers on me.

I nod. “Yeah, I’m good, thanks Tim.” Tim has since stopped asking me out, after I turned him down a few dozen times, but his blatant hopeful interest is always written all over him.

“Doug is asking for you,” Tim gives me a meaningful look.

I groan. My pain-in-the-ass boss and Monday mornings never seem to get along. It’s like he waits for the start of the week to unload some bullshit on me, setting a nice tone for a shitty week.

“Of course he is,” I smile sweetly. Doug Harrison may be the head of forensics, but Tim and I typically run the show. We’re both up for promotion, something that should make us rivals, but Tim obviously wants me more than he wants the position, so I don’t think he’d mind if I got the promotion.

“He’s in a meeting with one of the prosecutors of the Martelli case, but I’m sure he’ll find you soon enough since your office is right next to his.”

Inconveniently so, I think to myself, bracing for whatever Monday morning surprise Doug has in store for me.

“Thanks, Tim,” I force a smile and take the office sludge, knowing it’s going down the drain. But it’s easier than explaining and letting Tim see another piece of me. Only Dante knows how coffee drags me back to those endless nights of pain, the aroma of caffeine almost as strong as the antiseptic on floors and surfaces.

I didn’t realize just how much coffee was consumed in hospitals.

Coffee meant pain. A wound dressing, another surgery, another round of physio. Even now, years later, my leg throbs at the memory.

I feel Tim’s eyes on me as I walk away, more conscious than ever of my slight limp. Tim is brilliant, kind, supportive, and from a solid home. He’s easy on the eyes as well with his blond surfer good looks and lean muscled frame.

He was an avid follower of my anonymous blog before I confessed to being the author. Although he ended up ratting me out to everyone else in the office, I forgave him, chalking it up to overexcitement.

The bottom line is, on paper, he’s the type of guy I should date. A dependable friend who respects me and is interested in more than my looks.

So why can’t I give him the answer he wants?

Because I know there’s no point in trying. He’s nothing like Dante, who hit me like a potent drug. Dark, dangerous, toxic. And so fucking exciting, I’m still withdrawing after two years.

As I weave through the maze of desks and equipment, I notice some of my coworkers huddled around the compact electron microscope, appearing to be brainstorming a difficult case, but their hushed chatter stops as soon as I’m within earshot.

Typical. They’re probably talking about my blog again and the few million reasons why it’s in bad taste to be running it. Nothing I haven’t heard before. Although I think my dissection of the 1947 Black Dahlia murder might have been a little too intense, even for people who analyze blood spatters for a living.

“You’ll get over it guys,” I mutter under my breath.

I’d started an anonymous blog in my college sophomore year on a whim. It was my way to explore the darkness that fascinated me, to give voice to the thoughts I couldn’t share with anyone else. And now it’s exciting to share them with five thousand followers twice a month.

I reach my office at the far end of the room and drop my bag onto my desk, accidentally jostling the huge pile of papers, which then knocks over the small photo frame tucked face-down behind them, sending it clattering to the floor.

My breath huffs with annoyance as I snatch up the photo frame and throw it straight into the bin Then I march to the break room to dump the cold coffee down the sink. I’m feeling more settled when I return to my desk and power on my computer.

In less than a minute, however, I find myself diving into the trash and fishing out the frame. I carefully replace it on its usual corner on my desk, my throat tightening as I glance at the photo.

It’s one of Dad and me at my college graduation, six weeks after my twenty-first birthday.

Six weeks after the night I went to Chicago.

I examine Dad’s rare-toothed smile and the pride gleaming in his eyes as he hugs me tightly to his side. No one looking at the photo would ever guess that my father hadn’t said one word to me in six weeks.

And now I haven’t spoken to him in two.

Hot, angry tears spring to my eyes, but I shake them off, determined not to dwell this morning.

As my computer whirs to life, I glance furtively around the lab to see my colleagues still huddled around the same spot. Perfect.

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