Page 1 of Sinful Bargains

ADRIANA

1959

The gun in my hand fired, the deafening blast shocking everyone into silence. I watched as he slumped over the counter, his eyes frozen in shock. There was only one way out of this fight, and I had made the call tonight.

Antonio lay trembling on the kitchen floor, his chest heaving with shallow, frantic breaths at the sight before us. This should have ended long ago.

The gun fired again. Pulling the trigger on the revolver not once, but twice. Desperate to seal the job, once and for all. This time, William’s massive frame crumpled to the freshly mopped tile, blood pooling around him. It didn’t matter where it was pouring out of, only that it was coming out, and by the time someone found him, he’d begone.

Time was slipping through my fingers. I had to get Antonio and I out of there—far away—before it was too late. Before someone found out what I’d done.

The rain pounded against the windshield of my blue, 1940 Chevrolet Special Deluxe, relentless and unforgiving, each drop a reminder of my desperation to get us as far away as possible. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that myknuckles went white. They still trembled with the faint, iron-like scent of blood—his blood—clinging to my nostrils.

In the back seat, my thirteen-year-old son, Antonio, sat motionless, staring out at the storm with wide, unblinking eyes. I wanted to tell him everything would be fine, to offer some comfort, but I couldn't bring myself to say it. I didn't know if we could ever move past what happened tonight. I wasn’t sure I could ever forgive myself for shooting his father in front of him, leaving him for dead as we made a hasty exit.

The Staten Island ferry terminal loomed ahead, its massive silhouette casting a shadow over my thoughts. I couldn't shake the gnawing fear that sooner or later, someone would come looking for us. For me. And I would have to answer for my actions. In 1959, there was no time for women's rights, and in such a world, there would be no forgiveness for women who were expected to endure the wrath of their husbands in silence. For years, I had walked around, learning to cover up my scars since nobody was brave enough to ask me who had inflicted the wounds. But I convinced myself that Staten Island, with its quiet streets and small-town charm, was the last place anyone would think to search for me when they found my husband, William, dead on the kitchen floor.

Still, despite my attempts to quiet the fear, it lingered in the back of my mind, like a whisper I couldn't escape. A part of me hoped the city would swallow me up, disappear into its depths, and force me to forget everything I was running from. As if it never happened. As if I never killed my husband.

My breath hitched as the weight of what I'd done crashed over me; just the sheer, recent memory terrified me to my core. The bruises on my ribs throbbed with each shaky breath, a constant reminder ofwhyI had to rationalize my actions. But murder could never be justified. For years, I had endured his fists, his threats, and the way he mocked my tears. But tonight, I had fought back—and there was no taking it back now. I wouldhave to die with the guilt of murdering my abuser, and that I had done so in front of our son.

"Do you think we’re safe, Ma?" Antonio's voice shattered the heavy silence.

I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror and forced a nod, more for his sake than mine. "We will be," I promised, though my throat tightened around the lie.

I parked near the terminal and dug through my bag, counting the crumpled bills and coins I had grabbed in our frantic escape. My savings were a pitiful offering for what we needed: safety, a roof over our heads, and a future untainted by fear.

"Come on," I whispered, as if anyone would know our secret. Antonio climbed out, clutching his backpack. We had left so suddenly that he only had time to grab the backpack he'd kept hidden in his closet—the one he'd prepared for the day we would finally escape his father's abusive grip. And that day had come. Just not in the way either one of us could ever imagine.

My gaze darted inside the terminal, scanning the few stragglers—a janitor, an older couple arguing softly, and a group of teenagers loitering by the vending machines. Harmless, I thought, though my heart refused to slow. I wasn’t used to the feeling of having a man’s blood on my hands. It was as though everyone else could see it on me, smell it on me. Like they knew what I had done, but they didn’t find my actions justifiable.

But when my eyes locked on a man sitting in the far corner, my stomach dropped. He was staring at us.Oh fuck, he knew what I’d done.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and cloaked in a dark suit and tie. His sharp jawline and cold, calculating eyes seemed out of place among the ordinary travelers. And yet, he was watching us as if he knew our story. I turned away, urging Antonio closer to me. I couldn't afford to draw attention to myself right now.I had to act calm.

But as we boarded the ferry, my mind raced with questions.Was he following us, or was I imagining things? Had someone found William already?Either way, I couldn't shake the feeling that I might have stepped from one nightmare into another.

The city waited for us somewhere across the dark expanse of water—the town I was seeking solace and refuge in was the very town filled with secrets and power, ruled by men who wielded both like weapons. I would soon learn that safety had a price. And sometimes, salvation came with chains of its own.

I felt the cold sting of the wind as I tightened my grip on Antonio's arm. The Staten Island ferry groaned as it pulled away from the terminal, the bright lights of the city shrinking into a shimmering blur behind us. I watched as New York City faded into the night.

I hunched over, pressing Antonio closer to my side. My eyes darted in every direction at each unfamiliar face, fear curling in my stomach like a coiled snake. I didn't dare let my guard down, not after tonight. And not anytime soon. I was a woman on the run, and I would have to get used to looking over my shoulder. That was the choice I’d made. The price that I had to pay for our freedom.

Twenty minutes later, the ferry docked, and we scurried off down the sidewalk to a nearby hotel. The blinking sign hardly blinked anymore, but I pushed open the entrance door. The lobby of the rundown hotel reeked of damp wood and stale cigarette smoke. But it was all I could afford, so I forced myself to meet the clerk's eyes, slipping him the few bills I had stuffed in my bag.

"One room," I hesitated softly, my voice barely carrying over the ancient ceiling fan creaking overhead.

The man glanced at Antonio, then back at me, his face devoid of curiosity or sympathy. He handed me a single key attached to a worn leather fob. "Room 3A. Third floor, end ofthe hall," he muttered, returning to his crossword puzzle without waiting for my response.

I took Antonio's hand, pulling him toward the narrow staircase. My heart thudded with each step, the old wooden boards groaning beneath our weight. I hated how exposed we were, how every sound in this place seemed to echo like a gunshot. I was certain I'd never be able to get the sound of the revolver firing out of my mind. We quickly reached 3A and ushered ourselves inside. The room was small—barely big enough for the single bed pushed against one wall, a battered chair by the window, and a chipped nightstand. Once pale yellow, the wallpaper was a peeling, stained memory of better days. I closed the door and locked it, dragging the chair and placing it under the knob for good measure. I turned to Antonio, sitting on the edge of the bed, his tiny shoulders slumped. I hated to see him so defeated. We hadn’t said one word about what I’d done, or what he had seen, and I dreaded the day I’d have to acknowledge what had happened out loud.

"I know it's not much," I crouched before him, "but it's just for now. Tomorrow, we'll figure things out."

He nodded silently, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He hadn't spoken much since we'd left, and I couldn't blame him. He was only thirteen, thrust into a world of uncertainty with no warning.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" I suggested, brushing a stray lock of his dark brown, curly hair from his forehead. "You'll need your rest for tomorrow."

"Okay," he murmured, lying back against the lumpy mattress.

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