Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“I gotta use the toilet,” he says as if this needs to be explained.
I shift to my knees, back and tailbone aching from my time on the cold, hard floor. I push myself up to my feet and push my messy hair back as I walk past him.
“Get some sleep,” he says. I guess that’s his way of saying he cares, so I tell him I will.
I go to my room but I’m reluctant to lie down on the bed because even though I scrubbed up, it still feels like I’m coated in the warm, sticky blood from Jack’s stab wound. The way it felt to have his life slipping out into my hands, that terror and denial as I pressed down on his side as hard as I could, comes back to me now.
I cover my mouth with both hands and go throw up in the trash can. My dad takes forever in the bathroom, there’s no sense waiting for him to be done and going back in there. I go wash out the little trash can in the kitchen and take it back to my room.
Exhausted, I finally peel off my clothes and pull on a big t-shirt, spool up in my comforter and fall asleep. When I wake in the morning, my head pounds with the agony of a swollen-eyed woman who stayed up crying and throwing up most of the night. I stagger into the bathroom and rinse my mouth, gulp water from the faucet, my mouth is so dry. Then I run back to my room and fish my phone out of my pocket.
Nothing. No messages or missed calls, no voicemail from Jack telling me that he misses me, begging me to come back to him. Some weak, craven part of me knows that if he reached out even to ask how I am, I’ll go back to him and say I’m sorry and fall into his arms again. It’s better this way, I tell myself. He’s not going to plead with me or try to change my mind.
He’s Blackjack Marino, head of the Marino crime family and famous for being uncompromising, determined, a force to be reckoned with. That kind of man doesn’t keep coming back after he’s been dumped, and that kind of man isn’t going to look back on me with regret. He’s going to move on faster than I can snap my fingers, because there’s plenty of women who’d be glad to risk a little blood to be with Jack, and I’d be a fool to think otherwise.
I don’t believe he’s sitting around that fabulous penthouse missing me. He’ll be at the office and afterward he’ll go to his club or maybe out with friends. He’ll pick up a girl, or else he’ll let ten or twenty of them approach him one at a time before he takes his pick.
It makes me sick to think about him with someone else, but that’s reality and I’m the one who chose it. If the man I loved can get knifed at a casual meeting because some flunkie got aggressive and Jack got caught in the middle, then anything is possible when it comes to the danger that surrounds him. He’s not sitting behind a bunch of security guards and vetting everyone he speaks to for safety reasons.
He doesn’t live his life in an ivory tower, and even if he did, someone could get to him if they’re determined enough to take him out. Or really, what scares me is they could get to our child. This baby would be a living, breathing source of leverage against him.
Enemies, upstarts who want to overthrow his leadership in the family, crazies who think he crossed them—they’d all target our child. They’d never be safe, never have a chance to play outside with their friends or ride a bike without the constant threat that an enemy will snatch them for ransom or to manipulate their dad. Someone would take them, hurt them, even kill them because of who their dad is.
It's that thought that sends me reeling to the toilet again in time to throw up some more. I can’t do this. I can’t wallow in fear and grief. I broke up with Jack to save our baby. There’s no sense whining about it, I tell myself as I splash water on my clammy, pale face. I’ll make myself a cup of tea and when I’m feeling better in a few minutes, I’ll shower, get dressed, and go look for a new job.
It’s not like I can keep treating foot soldiers for the Marino family in the back of a bar. I need a decent job, some health insurance, a chance to finish my coursework so I can support a child and pay for good day care.
Lightheaded, weak and puffy from all the crying, I drink tea and scroll my phone for job postings, for the class schedules in the LPN program and which ones I could manage to take. It feels like I need to hurry, to complete the program and get my license before the baby is born. That way I have a more secure income.