Page 56 of Possessive Mafia Vows

“I remember giving it to you, sweetheart. We swapped keys. I’ve been to your apartment today to collect some more of your stuff like you asked.”

My heart starts thudding sickeningly. “I didn’t ask you to go to my apartment. I’ve still got my key.”

I pull my keyring out of my purse and fumble through them to find the one I’m looking for. The silver key that fits my front door, and the heavier key that lets me into the building. They’re both gone.

“Did you take my keys?” My breathing is speeding up, and I’m too hot in my coat with the heat from the hob.

He half-turns, dripping Bolognese sauce onto the floor. “You gave them to me, sweetheart. You stood right there and?—”

“No.” I shake my head. Why didn’t I notice sooner that they were missing? Because now I realize how light the bunch of keys in my hand feels. “I didn’t give them to you. I’m going home. Why would I have asked you to bring my clothes here?”

His bottom lip droops. “But I’ve made spaghetti Bolognese. Your favorite. I used to make it for you when you were a little girl.”

I have a vague recollection of sitting at the kitchen table when I was a kid, pushing pasta around a bowl because it tasted like tomato, and tomatoes make me gag. They still do.

“I can’t stay. I only came to collect my stuff.”

“I made it especially for you.”

“I don’t like spaghetti Bolognese.”

“But it was your favorite.” His face scrunches up in confusion.

“It wasn’t. I only ate it because…”

Because I was afraid that you would hurt me if I didn’t.

He stares at the wooden spoon in his hand, and the steam hovering above the pan. Then his expression crumples. “I fucked up again, didn’t I?”

“It’s okay. I’m not hungry.” Liar. “I just want to get home and go to bed.”

“I’ll cook something else. I can run down to the bodega on the next block. Tell me what you want, and I’ll go and get it.” The desperation in his voice bites into my already jagged nerves.

“No, please don’t. I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Can I have my keys back?”

I hold out my hand, and he rummages in the pocket of his loose-fitting jeans. I don’t breathe until he drops them into my palm. They’re warm from his body heat, and I try not to think about it as I reattach them to the keyring. I still have no idea how he got them, but I park that problem for now.

“Where did you put my stuff?”

“In the spare room.”

I don’t waste a beat. My father’s proximity and the smell of the tomatoey sauce are making me feel claustrophobic. I can’t even remember why I came here last night, and it’s even more unthinkable to me why I accepted his offer to stay.

Twenty-four hours, I said. Or is that another memory that will differ to his?

A black sack is on the bed in the spare room. I open it and peer inside. Sure enough, it’s filled with my clothes, and I’m tempted to leave them here because now I have to live with knowing that he rummaged through my closet while I was painting in my studio.

What else did he touch while he was there without my permission?

He said that I asked him to collect my stuff. I know I’m tired, but I’m pretty fucking certain I’d remember exposing myself and everything that I possess to the man who hurt my mom.

Securing the black sack with a knot, I drag it into the hallway. I peer around the kitchen door at my father who is glugging beer from a bottle.

“I’m going now.”

He wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “I wish you would stay. I won’t go out tonight. We can get noodles or a kebab, whatever you want.”

“I can’t.” I soften my tone, but I’m not apologizing for leaving him.

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