Page 144 of Chicago Sin
Still, I want to thank him. I can’t imagine he enjoyed talking to her. I just can’t picture him chatting her up in any way. So that fact that he stuck his neck out to make sure she got her flowers here means something. Whether it was before or after we broke up, I don’t know, but either way, it was nice of him.
And that’s when I’m sure.
I made a terrible mistake.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Armando
Larry’s happy, I’m finally doing what I was supposed to on this job—sit back and do nothing while the rest of them work.
I rub my swollen knuckles and stare at Hannah’s dad, who’s back on the job already. I was on edge, ready to fuck Larry in the ass with my boot if he gave Harold any shit about being out, but nothing happened.
Harold refuses to look at me, and Larry tries to pretend I’m not here anyway.
The last week has been a fucking blur. I go out every night with Marco and Leo delivering messages for the don then losing my mind in a bottle. The days are nothing. I don’t even know how they pass. It’s like being in prison again. One minute bleeds into an hour bleeds into a day. Nothing but violence and staying alive to fuel my existence.
At quarter ‘til five o’clock, everyone starts moving in unison, packing their shit up to go. I stand and start to head out, but I see Harold looking over at me.
I wait because—fuck—I’m desperate for any kind of news about Hannah, any kind of connection to her. I’ve been so fucking lost without her. Dead.
He walks toward me like he’s pissed. With intent. Like he’s going to punch me in the gut.
And when he reaches me, he does.
I take it like a man, and I don’t fight back because he’s Hannah’s fucking dad. If he thinks I deserve his wrath, he’s probably right.
He hits me again, this time in the ribs. Then once more in the jaw.
“I don’t care who the fuck you are. Or what family you work for. If you think you’re gonna knock up my daughter and walk away, you’d better think again.”
It takes a second for his words to sink in. Knock up. He said knock. Up.
I swipe the blood from my lip with the back of my hand. “Hannah’s pregnant?” I demand.
The guy goes still, like he realized he might have fucked up. Like maybe I wasn’t supposed to know.
I remember that pregnancy test box on the table. She told me it had been negative.
She lied?
Why?
A dozen scenarios run through my mind, but I don’t stop to ask Harold, who obviously doesn’t know what’s going on in his daughter’s head any more than I do. I leave him standing there and jog to the street. I need a fucking Uber.
Right fucking now!
For once in my goddamn life, things seem to go my way because a taxi pulls over when I flag it, and I throw myself inside, giving the address for Garden of Eden.
She lied and broke up with me rather than telling me she was pregnant. Why? Why?
Because she knew I’d be no good as a father and provider was the most obvious answer. That was the reason I’d freaked out when I saw the test box. And because I already had someone who wanted me dead, and I sure as hell didn’t need to endanger a tiny innocent life with my fucked up drama.
Something uneasy twists in my gut as I replay my reaction. What if she lied because of how I acted? My sensitive, beautiful flower. She feels every emotion I should’ve been feeling. She’s like a conduit for them. Maybe she felt my dismay and shut me out because of it. Maybe she thought I’d pressure her to get an abortion or some shit.
Fanculo! I failed her in every fucking way! I completely botched the pregnancy test in addition to my refusal to show up the way she needed me to. To be her man. To offer a genuine partnership.
Fuck! It’s all I can do not to punch the hell out of the taxicab door, but I restrain myself. I can’t get kicked out of the cab—not before I get to Garden of Eden.
