Page 103 of Possessive Mafia Vows

I sit on the bed and wait. My ears strain for the sound of footsteps outside the room. When I finally hear the key clicking in the lock, my heartbeat grows so loud, it drowns out everything else.

Please let it be my father.

Please let it be…

I stop myself from crying out loud when he appears in the doorway carrying another tray of food..

This is it. I’m only going to get one shot at this, so I have to make it count. If I fail… I can’t even contemplate the alternative.

Hugging my knees to my chest, the blanket covering my legs, I start rocking back and forth. I cover my face and surreptitiously poke myself in the eye. It stings. But I barely register the pain.

“Sweetheart?”

The anger is gone. I question briefly whether he believed his own lies when he said that he wanted to get to know me but instantly shut it down.

Focus. Track his movements. Wait for the right moment.

“Are you sick?” He steps closer.

I should’ve checked if he was armed, but it’s too late now. No turning back.

“Sweetheart, what is it?”

His boots come into view near the bed.

One more step, that’s all I’m waiting for.

I keep rocking, and tense my shoulders, groaning as if I’m in pain.

I hear his footsteps. He’s approaching me cautiously, but I convince myself that it’s because he doesn’t want to have to deal with a sick prisoner rather than fear that I’m trying to trick him.

It’s now or never.

I shove the blanket off me and raise blurry eyes to him. “I-I think I’m having a miscarriage.”

He recoils.

I stand up and peer down at the blood staining my pants between my legs. More blood than I thought there would be, but there’s no time to worry about it now.

“Help me, Dad.” I touch between my legs. My fingers come away bloody, and I hold them up to show him.

He gags. Turning his face away, he retches, his entire body shuddering.

He’s making me gag too, but I fight it.

The instant he starts vomiting, I lunge at him, my hand reaching for the handle of the pistol tucked inside his waistband.

It’s heavier than I expected it to be. I drag it out and, holding it with both hands, I point it directly at him, and back away to the door, as he swipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He sniffs loudly, spit clinging to his bottom lip.

“Put the gun down, sweetheart.” The patronizing tone is back, like I’m a naughty child who ate cookies before dinner.

“Don’t come any closer.” My legs are trembling violently. I still need to reach the door, but I don’t want him to try following me.

“Have you ever used a gun, sweetheart?”

I don’t answer.

“It’s not as easy as it looks.” He moves towards me, and I back away.

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