Page 225 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

I finally collect myself enough to leave Nate’s room. I take a few deep breaths to calm my racing heart, the anger, guilt, and regret consuming my body and mind.

I have to be strong, for myself and for Nate.

I have to stay positive.

A chill slithers through me, telling me one other thing I need to do.

Pray.

My throat tightens because I immediately know who planted that thought in my mind just now.

I’d never been overly religious growing up, but my mother was. And she always prayed, not just when things were on shaky ground. Sure, she asked for strength during hard times, but more often than not, she wanted to thank Him for all of the good ones. She always said praying made her feel closer to God. And she believed with all of her heart that He’d always protect her and her family.

And what good did it do? She was brutally murdered!

So much for her closeness to God.

A lot of good it did her and Dad.

I despised the thought of prayer after my parents died. How could I not when my mother had believed so wholeheartedly that God would always take care of us? Of course, when I challenged it all, the priest who spoke to us afterward pointed out that God has a divine plan for all of us, and my parents were called to fulfill their part.

Total bullshit from someone who has no fucking clue about anything concrete.

That’s the kind of toxic opinion I’ve held about prayer and God for the past few years.

My gut twists as the shiver flutters against my skin once again.

Right now, as my eyes brim with tears and my heart aches like it’s being shredded inside of my chest, some unspoken force is tossing me a lifeline. A bright light shining deep within the murk is filling me with an inexplicable sense of calm, and for the first time in a long time, I feel something, something good, something positive.

Hope.

At a time when I need it most.

I squeeze my eyes shut. She’s trying to talk to me. I can feel it. I can feel her.

A sob bubbled deep in my chest and I wipe my eyes, spinning around. I walk down the corridor, stopping when I see an orderly come out of a supply closet. “Excuse me,” I say. “Can you please tell me where the chapel is?”

He stares at me for a long minute before nodding, the kind of stare that makes the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. “Down the hallway and to the right,” he says in a thick, gravelly voice.

“Thanks.” I flash a quick smile as another shiver flutters through my clothes, except this one isn’t remotely comforting or peaceful. I shake it off because I don’t have a shred of spare energy to worry about creepy orderlies.

I wander around the corridors in search of the chapel, and I’m sure I followed his very simple directions. But the hallways are getting dimmer and dimmer as I venture away from the Emergency Room. It’s a small hospital, and there clearly aren’t many people working on this floor, other than the trauma teams. I decide to backtrack. Maybe he said to go right but he meant I should go left.

I rub the back of my neck, those damn hairs still prickling along my skin, a strange sense of dread washing over me as I walk. Light footsteps tap along the floor behind me and I spin around to find myself face to face with…nothing.

Nobody.

Just me and my crazy, overworked, and overly stressed mind.

I walk a few more steps and let out a breath.

The chapel.

I pull open the door and it creaks open. It’s dark, save for the candles glowing along the dark wood walls. I walk up to the first pew and take a few tentative steps inside, sinking to my knees.

I fold my hands together and press them to my head.

Taking a deep breath, I let the scent of incense fill my lungs. My eyes flutter closed and I try to connect. My heart thumps hard, my pulse throbbing out of control against my neck. Goosebumps pop up along my arms and I feel like an imposter, like I shouldn’t be here because of the anger plaguing me.

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