Page 21 of Broken Mafia Bride
I was afraid that after I cut off our couch session abruptly that night, he’d become mean or grouchy to me, but the next morning, he had served me toast and tea like nothing had happened. We haven’t discussed that night, and I’m kind of relieved about it.
“The state investigator just called a few minutes ago. He said he might have some info for us.”
My heart leaps in my chest at the news, hand tightening around the phone. “Really?”
“Look, I don’t want you to get your hopes up too much about this, but I have a good feeling about today,” he says. “Do you think you can come out on your own? Let’s meet at Dusty’s bar. Sienna and I are on our way there now. We can go to the station together.”
“Uh, sure.”
“If that’s not okay with you, I can just come to the house and?—”
“No,” I cut in. “I don’t want you coming all the way here. I’ll meet you at the bar, it’s fine. Just give me a minute to get dressed.”
“Take your time.”
I hang up and climb out of bed slowly. My ankles are a bit swollen today, but at least the nausea is long gone. I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and tie my hair into a messy bun.
Last, I slip on my comfortable flannel shirt that used to belong to Marco and head out. I mostly steal his shirts now, because the ones he bought for me when I first arrived barely fit anymore. The weather is nice outside, and a small smile blooms on my face at the sight of the clear blue skies. Sienna keeps making me promise to start getting my steps in because being active will be good for the baby, but so far, I’ve been a couch potato.
I’m now familiar with the path leading through the forest around Marco’s house, and in no time at all, I’m stepping away from forest floor into graveled road.
“Boss, there’s a town ahead,” I hear a man say.
I freeze in my tracks as I spot two men in dark suits standing in the clearing ahead. My gaze falls to the gun held in one of the man’s hands.
Oh god.
I crouch awkwardly behind a row of shrubbery, my swollen belly rendering me clumsy and slow. A terrified gasp rips from my throat, and I clap a hand over my mouth to silence it.
At the sound of leaves crunching in the opposite direction, I turn my head to see another large, armed man stomping forward. This one has a scar dissecting his face, from his hairline on one side to the opposite side of his jaw. The man looks every inch a killer.
“No sign of her,” the scarred one says.
My heart clenches painfully in my chest as a terrifying thought strikes me. Could these men be after me? The possibility sends a shiver of dread through my core, and I have no intention of sticking around to find out.
Without a second thought, I move quickly but carefully, cradling my belly with one arm. My breaths come shallow and ragged. I keep my eyes fixed ahead until, finally, I spot the faint outline of a building through the trees. Relief surges through me when I realize it’s the chapel. I scan the clearing to be sure no one has seen me, then hurry across the gravel and slip through a side door.
No one seems to be about, as it’s a weekday afternoon and not many people live nearby anyway. Still, I can’t shake the fear of those men barging in, searching for whoever this “her” is they were hunting. I won’t risk it.
The air inside is cool, heavy with incense and whispered prayers.
I scan the room, desperate for the nearest, most inconspicuous spot where my swollen belly and I can hide without squatting or lying flat. Then I see it: the confessional booth tucked in the far corner near the altar. Hope flares in my chest as I race through the priest’s entrance.
I’m flooded with relief when I find it unlocked. I slump onto the seat, my body trembling with exhaustion, and try to catch my breath. My hand instinctively rubs over my bump when I feel it kick. God, I need to pee so badly, but there’s no time for that now.
The chapel door creaks open, and heavy boots echo across the old stone floor. I suck in a breath and squeeze tighter into the corner of the booth, as if the wood will swallow me whole.
Then—he stops. Right outside my door.
The only thing keeping us apart is the thin wall of the booth.
I freeze, the world reduced to heartbeats and breath. One heartbeat. Two. Three…
I squeeze my eyes shut, heart pounding as I wait for the man to find me.
My eyes fly open in shock when I hear the door of the confessional open, and the man enters the stall on the other side.
“Father…” he says, but his voice isn’t steady. It’s cracked and raw, like something vital has been shattered in him.
