Page 25 of Sinister Savior

“I’ll take it through a car wash later today.” It’s all I say to him before I lead Alice into the bedroom. As my hand rests on the small of her back, she shoves it away and moves more quickly. I notice the look of concern on Thomas’s face, but he says nothing and I follow her.

My temper is barely in check now. I’ve tried to be nice. I’ve tried to stay calm. I’m doing all of this for her, and I blew my cover just to save her. She can’t even be grateful to me for what I’m doing, and maybe I am in the wrong place doing the wrong thing. I’m confused and angry as I follow her into the bedroom and shut the door.

“You’re welcome,” I snap, and she whips around and glowers at me.

“I’m sorry, okay! I made a bad choice. You don’t have to make me a bad guy. I am a victim. I don’t want anyone to be doing any of this. I just want to be safe.” She climbs into bed and kicks off her shoes, then curls up and hugs the pillow to her chest. The blonde hair is different, but she’s still beautiful. I find myself feeling bad for getting angry, but I’m justified. I’m risking my life for her.

“You can’t just run out there and pretend nothing is happening. They’ll find you. And now if they’ve followed you to the bus stop from wherever, they may actually know where we are. Now you’ve not only dragged me into the situation, but you’re risking Thomas’s life too.” The sting of guilt sears my conscience, but it lands squarely as intended.

Alice sobs and pulls the blankets over her head. She’ll think twice before running out on me again. She is free to do as she pleases, but she’s taking her own life into her hands when she does that. The streets aren’t safe for anyone that time of night, but when the Mafia is hunting you, it’s never safe.

Stewing, I pace for a while listening to her cry, but I’m restless. I can’t sit down. I can’t think. I want to take a drive, but that’s not safe either. I have forty-four hours left until the guns I purchased are even usable. Without ammo, we’re sitting ducks. And if Paolo is smart, he’ll check the footage of the security cameras in that parking garage where his man was murdered. He’ll see the license plate on the priest’s car, and it will lead them directly here.

I need a drink, so I slip out of the bedroom, leaving the door cracked so I can hear if Alice needs me, and I go to the kitchen. Thomas is gone now, probably up to the church to begin his morning prayers. I head for the whiskey tucked in the cupboard behind the box of instant mashed potatoes, bypassing coffee altogether. I’ve been up all night again and my body is wrecked, but I won’t be able to shut down until I know Alice is sound asleep.

I pour myself a drink and sit at the table, watching the bedroom door. What she did was ridiculously stupid, and she doesn’t even realize how dangerous it was. I need to call Ervine and see if our ammo guy can speed up the plan. We may be looking at a showdown in less than twenty-four hours, and we need those rounds to fight. I also need to get my men together because we have a lot of work to do in an even shorter amount of time now.

Paolo is still going down, with or without Alice. But one thing is certain. My focus has to be on him now—on taking him out. If she runs off again, I can’t go chase her and protect her. She’ll be on her own. I brought this war upon myself, and I have to finish it once and for all. Letting my guard down for even a second will have catastrophic consequences.

It's all or nothing.

19

ALICE

Icouldn’t sleep. After my stupid attempt at running away and Mario subsequently getting angry with me, I lay in his arms and tossed and turned for hours. He’s awake now, seated at the dining room table, probably doing business that he should be out doing. But he feels the need to stay here now, to babysit me. I’m not under lock and key, but I may as well be with him jumping at every creak of the floorboards. He thinks they’ll come for us today—yet another reason I’m unable to rest.

I creep to the door and peek out. He’s there, poring over something on his phone. I wonder if it’s just some sort of social media or if he’s reading the news. I watch him type but don’t know if he’s texting someone. When he looks up, I back into the darkness of the bedroom. He can’t see me in here watching him, but I can see everything he does. He doesn’t have to watch me. I’m not leaving again.

I’ve learned my lesson, and I know I’m safer here with him. I was gone less than two hours and Paolo’s men were on my trail. As if they have eyes and ears in every neighborhood, they were onto me before I even got out of the city. Mario is right. If I’m going to escape LA, I’m going to need help getting out of town first. After that, I think I can manageto slip away undetected and possibly vanish for good. But then I thought I could get away the first time, too.

My shoulders ache, stress tightening every muscle in my body but settling in my neck and upper back the worst. I reach up and rub the stiff muscle as I walk back to bed and crawl beneath the covers. It’s late afternoon already. Mario has to know I’m awake in here, but he’s still upset with me. I hate that I’ve angered him. I never meant to. I’m just impulsive and stir-crazy, and the two don’t mix very well.

In fact, a lot of things in my life aren’t mixing very well. Like my desire to be free from the life I’m living and the fact that I’m having Mario’s baby. That test result was a shock to my core—not because I didn’t expect it but because it confirmed my worst fear. I’m going to be tied to Paolo Gatti and his Family for the rest of my life. Even Tom, as messed up as he was, wouldn’t have wanted this. He’d have wanted me to get away from here. It makes sense now why he was stealing money and why he procrastinated having children. It was all to protect me. He really did love me.

Mario loves me too, in his own way. Sometimes, I feel like the affection he has for me is rooted in this complex he has—to be my savior. What a sinister savior he is, too, using any means necessary to defend my honor and protect my life. It’s humbling and humiliating at the same time, that I need someone like him to protect me. How did I let myself be so blind to my former husband’s secret life? How could I let this happen?

And now I’m pregnant with a Mafia baby. Even this is a horrible choice. My hands cradle my stomach, and I feel emotion making my chest swell. I want to be a mother so desperately, to hold a tiny baby in my arms and be reminded of the innocence of life. To get a do-over with my child, break the curse of this wretched life I’m living under. But a Mafia baby? Mario’s child?

Being with Mario, raising his child, would mean constantly watching my back. His enemies and even the men who report to him wouldalways be a threat. I’d be watching over my shoulder the rest of my life. Albeit, I’ll be doing that anyway, but if I’m alone, not tied to him, I’ll have a greater measure of confidence that a strange face is just a strange face, not a stalker lying in wait.

And is it ethical to bring a child into the world when I know damn well he or she will be born to a life of crime? Can I raise him or her in the atmosphere of death and deceit and not carry a burden of built and shame the rest of my life? Not to mention what people will say about me. Men like Mario and Paolo aren’t strangers to criticism and the public eye. My life will be under a spectacle of public opinion, and I could fall prey to vicious accusations of working together with them in their criminal acts. Do I really want this?

The first few tears well up and I blink them away, but soon, they’re flowing freely. My pillow grows moist and my chest begins to ache the more I dwell on all the negative side effects that could happen if I stay here with Mario. Will he even let me leave? If he knows I’m pregnant, he will want his child. Any man would. He will want to raise his son or daughter, teach them the good things in life, have them follow in his footsteps. That thought makes me cry harder. Do I really want my baby to follow the path of the criminal underworld?

And what about the stereotypes? Is Mario just with me because of his God complex? Will he stay faithful to me? Because I’m not the type of woman to let my man sleep around, find other partners who satisfy him more, bring home sexual diseases which he passes to me. And what sort of a father would he be to our child if he did that? What sort of role model? Can I live with my choice if my heart gets broken beyond repair?

I’m wallowing in self-pity, obsessing over all the “what-ifs” and not thinking clearly about the present moment. If Paolo and his men show up to this church to find me and I’m not alert enough to know what’s going on, I’ll die for sure. There’s a good chance I’ll die, anyway. No one escapes from him for long, but if I could just rest a while, at least I’ll have a fighting chance when it goes down.

I press my eyes closed but the tears keep coming. I hope I’ll cry myself to sleep, but sleep doesn’t come. What does come is another round of fitful thoughts and worries that plague me. What will my family think? How will my baby have a normal life? Will I even be alive to carry this baby?

The tears become so intense I can barely breathe through my snot-filled nose. I reach for a tissue on the nightstand but accidentally knock the box, along with my phone, to the floor. The door swings open seconds later, and Mario rushes to my side and drops to his knees by the bed.

“Are you okay?”

If only I could say that I was okay. I’m not. I’m not going to be for a while, until this entire thing is over and Paolo is behind bars or permanently taken out of the game. I shudder to think there will be more killing, but it may be the only option Mario has now. I shake my head and sob harder, and he uses a tissue from the dropped box to wipe my face. I hate ugly crying, but Mario is the only person in the world I’d do it in front of without being ashamed.

“I’m scared,” I blub as I grab his hand and force him to cradle my cheek. His touch is what I need right now. I need to be tethered to the reality that someone cares, that someone—anyone—understands my situation and will fight for me. I need to know that someone is in charge, in control. That I don’t have to be the one to keep watch anymore. I don’t have to defend myself. This is what I’ve been trying to tell my therapist for months now, and she never understood. I’m not the captain of my own destiny. I’m a distraught, terrified woman who has suffered something unspeakable more than once.

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