Page 102 of Possessive Mafia Vows

I won’t even attempt to get past the Russian.

Nick guards the doorway like he’s just waiting for me to bolt.

My best chance is to somehow trick my father into setting me free. The same father who tried to kill my mom and has handed me over to the bratva to avoid paying his gambling debts. The same father who’s now carrying a weapon around like it’s a cell phone.

He isn’t going to smile, stand aside, and wish me luck.

But what other options do I have?

I keep limping around the basement. If I sit down for too long, my ankle and knee will seize up, and I won’t be going anywhere.

I just need to find a chink in his armor. Sure, he’s a calculating narcissistic asshole, but everyone has a weakness.

I force myself to eat the remains of the sandwich and wash it down with the bottle of water the Russian brought in on the tray.It doesn’t seem to go down, lodging in my throat and making me feel queasy, but I focus instead on my father, dragging up memories from my childhood that I’ve suppressed until now.

In all of them, I’m aware of myself cowering in a corner of the room, or listening from the stairs, or hiding behind my mom. I have no memories of him,not even one, that fills me with any kind of warmth or affection. No memories that make me smile. What kind of person chooses to leave behind a legacy like this?

Focus.

I’m not wasting time figuring out what makes my father tick; he doesn’t deserve my energy and consideration. I just need to know how to beat him.

Beat him…

I’ve no idea where the memory comes from—I’ve never recalled it before—but it’s so vivid that it takes my breath away. I stop near the doorway on a circuit of the room, bent double, waiting for my breathing to regulate itself.

I must’ve been four years old, one of my earliest memories. My mom took me to the park. I was being careless, riding high on the buzz of the swings and my mom pushing me higher than I’d ever been. I went on the merry-go-round, my mom making it spin faster and faster until some other kids wanted to join in. Bigger kids. They ran around the outside of the merry-go-round, pushing it as they went.

I wanted to be like them.

So, I climbed off, held on tightly to the bar, and ran as fast as I could around the apparatus. Which, it turned out, wasn’t as fast as the other kids. My feet got tangled up with another kid’s legs,I stumbled, and then I was flung sideways, unable to stop myself from landing on my elbow. I scraped the skin off it. My mom carried me home sobbing, sat me on the kitchen counter and cleaned the wound with antiseptic wipes, telling me fairy tales to keep me distracted.

When my arm was clean and dry and covered with a large Band-aid, she said, “Lucky your father isn’t here. He can’t stand the sight of blood.” Then, thoughtful, “That would be one way to beat him, I guess.”

My father can’t stand the sight of blood.

It isn’t much, but right now, it’s all I’ve got to work with.

My knee has stopped bleeding beneath my pants; I can feel it crusting over, rubbing against the fabric as it continues to swell. Would it be enough of a distraction?

I doubt it.

It must be cringe-worthy. Something that’s going to turn his stomach on its head and make him want to vomit. I need him to be looking the other way when I run out of the door and lock him inside.

A wave of nausea crashes through me at the mental image of me making myself bleed in front of him. Am I strong enough to do it? How deep does it need to be to halt him in his tracks? What am I even going to use? What if I cut too deep and then I can’t stop it from bleeding?

Now I’ve set the questions in motion, my head is spinning. I’ve hardly eaten over the past few days, and whatever drugs Nick gave me on the plane are still wearing off.

A horrible thought slams into me, causing me to lean against the locked door for support.

If I’m pregnant, will the drugs affect the fetus? I didn’t plan on having a baby right now, but I can’t bear the thought of something bad happening to take it away from me.

If I should lose it…

I can’t believe where my thoughts are going. I once read in a book that your thoughts have to be controlled or else they tumble into a downward spiral, and mine seem to be sinking to an all-time low.Alice in Wonderlandhas nothing on me right now because my warped brain has figured out how to get past my father.

My entire plan depends on my father returning with more food later. If it’s Nick, or the Russian, I’ll have to wing it and pray that they’re either unarmed, or unwilling to kill me until Kyle has given them what they want.

The inside of my thigh feels sticky and sore. I smashed the plastic tray against the wall and used the jagged edge to slice the tender flesh at the top of my leg. It’ll probably scar, but I’ve learned to live with worse.

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