Page 49 of Possessive Mafia Vows

I peer around the room for something I can use as a weapon, and my gaze settles on a length of curtain pole propped up against the corner of the opposite wall. I grab it quickly and go back to the door, opening it a crack, barely wide enough to allow the cool air of the apartment to brush my face.

All I can see is the dingy darkness of the hallway. Whoever it is, they haven’t switched the lights on, which means they don’t want to be seen. My mind latches on to the man in black loitering outside the gallery, and the car with the tinted windows parked outside my apartment. They know I’m alone.

Where the fuck is my father when I need him?

I lean back against the door. I wish I’d gone home, but there’s no point regretting it now. I have two choices: I wait for them to find me, or I try to catch them off-guard and use the element of surprise against them first.

My pulse is galloping. My internal temperature has gone through the roof. But I don’t consider the consequences of what I’m about to do.

I open the door and peep through again.

Nothing.

I’m about to fling the door wide open and race along the dingy hallway yelling at the top of my lungs when my father stumbles out of the kitchen with a pint glass of water in one hand and practically falls through his bedroom door.

I don’t move. I stare at the closed door until my eyes water. I’m still wielding the curtain pole in my hands like a lightsaber, waiting for him to re-emerge or for someone else to pounce on me from the shadows. But nothing happens.

There was no intruder. No man in black with a pistol in his pocket. No pretend jogger wearing a black suit under his sweatpants.

My father had clearly been drinking. He didn’t even notice me with a metal pole in my hand, and I can already hear him snoring.

I go back into my room and close the door. I drag the nightstand in front of it—it won’t stop anyone from getting in, but it will at least make a noise if someone tries to open the door. Then I sit upright in bed, drink my coffee, and wait for morning to come.

I play Candy Crush Saga on my phone until my eyes feel sore.

I scroll through social media.

I avoid reading Kyle’s messages; I don’t have the bandwidth for them while I’m still in fight-or-flight mode. They’ll have to wait until daylight at least.

My eyes feel gritty when I climb out of bed, shower, and make coffee. I find an old radio and turn the music up loud. I eat aslice of leftover pizza, cold, because I’m running on empty, but it sticks in my throat and makes me feel nauseous.

I want to get out of here, go to the gallery, immerse myself in paint and cleanse myself of the past twenty-four hours. But I’m not leaving until I’ve spoken to my father.

It’s almost lunchtime when he eventually emerges from his room like a mole burrowing out from its underground tunnel. He wanders into the kitchen scratching his head and yawning loudly.

“Morning, sweetheart.” He refills his glass with water from the cold tap.

“Where were you last night?”

He tilts his head back and drains the glass without coming up for air. “I met up with some friends.” He burps loudly.

“I thought you were an intruder.”

He blinks at me slowly. “You’re safe here, sweetheart. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you; I told you that.”

“But you weren’t here. I couldn’t sleep. So, when I heard a noise, I thought someone had broken in.”

“Now, you’re being paranoid.” He opens a cabinet, pulls out a loaf of bread, and sticks two slices into the toaster.

“Stop being so fucking paranoid! You’re the reason I don’t come home because I can’t deal with the fucking interrogation!”

The memory flashes into my head, and it’s so vivid it takes my breath away. I’ve never thought of it before. It must’ve been buried beneath layers of happy memories that I made with my mom before she died, but now that it’s there, I can’t shake it off.

That’s what he used to say to my mom. Whenever they had a fight, he’d accuse her of being paranoid, like she was the one in the wrong.

“I’m not being paranoid.” I keep my voice calm. “You didn’t come home till 5 a.m. I thought someone had broken in.”

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?” He’s holding a tub of spread from the fridge in front of him. “I was home just after midnight.”

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