Page 48 of Possessive Mafia Vows

This is the scariest part: everyone—Kyle and Nick—seem to have more information at their fingertips than should be legal. The fact that I haven’t seen a laptop or tablet in my father’s apartment is some small consolation.

Later that afternoon, we exit the building via the back way and take a taxi to my apartment. My father waits outside while I hastily pack a bag and then we go straight back and order a pizza takeout. We eat in front of the TV, a game show I’ve never watched before. My father guesses the answers and gets them wrong and then shakes his head every time I guess correctly.

“How did my little girl get to be so clever, huh?”

“I worked hard at school.”

The comment settles between us like a line that says DO NOT CROSS. We’ve deliberately skirted around the past, trying to keep this situation as normal as possible, but I guess it’s unavoidable.

“Your mom must’ve been so proud of you.” There are tears in his eyes again, and this time they almost seem genuine. Almost.

“She was.” I fold stringy cheese into my mouth and wipe grease from my chin with a paper napkin.

“I wish I’d gotten to tell her how sorry I was.”

Deep breath. “Why didn’t you?”

“I waited too long.” He bites off half a slice of pizza. “Then, there never seemed to be a right time, and I thought it best to leave your mom in peace.”

“What about me?”

“You were better off with your mom. I wasn’t in a good place, sweetheart. You didn’t need me walking back into your life with all the shit that was following me around.”

He replaces the lid on his empty pizza box and rises. “I’ve got to go out. Keep the door locked, and don’t wait up for me.”

He dumps the box on the kitchen counter and grabs his keys.

“Where are you going?”

“To see a man about a dog.”

The door closes behind him, and he locks me inside.

I can’t sleep. The bed is uncomfortable, my feet feel like blocks of ice, and I can’t figure out how to turn the heating on. And my father isn’t home.

I shouldn’t be concerned about him, but it feels wrong that he asked me to stay when he knew he wasn’t going to be here. He promised to look out for me—were they just words to him? A means to an end to convince me to stay? Or do the lies trip off his tongue so easily that he doesn’t bother to keep track of them and follow through with actions?

Pulling on an extra pair of socks, I wrap my coat around me and wander through to the kitchen. I boil the kettle and make a cup of coffee to keep me warm; sleep is eluding me anyway, so the caffeine won’t make any difference.

Back in my father’s spare room, I sit on the bed with the pillows propped up behind me and power up my phone. On my father’s advice, I switched it off when I arrived so that I couldn’t be tracked, but thinking about it now, even with my foggy brain cells, I’m sure that cell phones can be traced by their most recent activity.

I’ve had three missed calls and twenty-seven messages from Kyle.

Victoria tried calling six times; no doubt Kyle alerted her to my falling off the radar. I open her last message:Si, I’m worried about you. Call me!

Nothing from Nick.

I shouldn’t be disappointed. Didn’t I send a private message to the universe requesting that they both leave me alone? But it leaves me with a sense of uneasiness, nonetheless. He has texted me relentlessly since the gallery opening, turning up unannounced to take me to lunch, rocking up at my apartment with flowers.

And then silence.

I check the time on my phone. 04:57. I can’t call Victoria in the middle of the night, and I already know what she’ll say when she finds out where I am:“What the fuck, Si! Are you insane?”

I hear a crash from somewhere in the apartment, and my heart starts racing.

Fuck!

Hands trembling, I place the cup of coffee on the nightstand, and tiptoe across the room to the door. My blood is gushing in my ears so loudly I can’t hear anything else. Then, a dull thump reaches me, closely followed by, “Shh.”

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