by Sam Mariano
He thinks I’m relenting, begging, soft, so he isn’t as guarded as he should be, isn’t prepared for it when I twist as if in defense and suddenly bring my knee up. It’s not easy and I have to fight and scratch and kick like hell, but I manage to knee him in the junk. While he’s reacting, I bring my feet up and kick him off me.
“You little fucking cunt,” he screams, his voice high.
My heart hammers as I launch to my feet, catching my balance on the wall and bounding down the hall to the bedroom.
I look to the window, wishing Liam was out there. I want to be saved. I want help. I don’t want to have to do this alone.
But he isn’t, and I am alone, but for the one advantage Paul doesn’t know I have.
I make it to my bedside table and jerk it open, quickly finding the stun gun Liam gave me. I don’t know what I’m doing, haven’t had a chance to think through the ramifications. All I know is that motherfucker isn’t going to win tonight.
He bounds down the hallway like a bat out of hell and throws open the bedroom door. A sick, smug smile plays on his thin little lips.
I’m doubting myself and my ability to even use this damn stun gun. Paul isn’t the strongest of men, certainly no match for Liam, but he is stronger than me. He hasn’t seen it yet, but what if he’s able to disarm me?
“You’re pathetic,” he says, shaking his head as he steps inside.
This is funny, coming from him.
“It must have been so easy for him to prey on you. The boss’ sad, lonely stepdaughter. You must’ve been so fucking desperate for the attention, the connection. He saw a means to an end and bonus sex; you saw a motherfucking soulmate.”
It feels like an ice cube slides through my body but I don’t show a reaction.
“So fucking unloved. You must’ve been so fucking easy. All he had to do was be nice to you.”
I wish I could kill him. I can’t even stop my lip from curling up, momentarily overcome with hatred for the sad, angry little man before me. I want to scream at him, claw his face off, remind him that he’s the one who made me like this.
But I’ll be damned if I ever give him the satisfaction of thinking he has that kind of power over me.
Or any of them. I hate all of them in that moment, more intensely than I have in a long time.
Because he’s right.
Maybe not in actuality, maybe he’s not right about whatever Liam’s doing, but he’s right about that.
I was easy. I was lonely. If Liam did want to seduce me to get to my family, they sure as hell groomed me for it.
They stole my life.
They carved out the person I once was and left me a goddamn shell.
I want to say something awful to him, something truly scathing, but I’m too overcome by resentment and a massive headache to come up with anything.
My fingers flex on the stun gun he still hasn’t seen, hidden behind my leg. I’ll die before I let him put his hands on me tonight, and I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do or how far from the house I’ll even make it afterward, but by God, tonight I will fight to the death.
I’m ready.
Maybe that’s why he fades. Maybe he can sense it. Maybe his balls just hurt because of my attack, I don’t know. But he doesn’t come any closer. He shakes his head, giving me a mean look that might hurt if I gave even half a damn.
“Fuck you,” he says, still shaking his head. Then he spits on the ground, meeting my gaze. “I don’t even fucking want you anymore.”
And with that, he turns and leaves.
Liam
As I bite into my cold chicken sandwich, an envelope drops onto the cheap folding table in front of me.
I pause mid-chew and put the sandwich down, grabbing the envelope, thick with cash, and thumbing through it.
Upon verification that it’s the sum I expected, I put it back down and resume eating my sandwich.
“Your bonus,” Raj says, in case I hadn’t pieced that shit together.
“Half my bonus,” I correct him.
Chuckling lightly, he says, “Of course. I would never dream of cheating you.”
“I should hope not.”
“The other half when the job is done, naturally.”
I don’t respond, but he lingers, seeming to want me to.
“A gesture of good faith, if you will,” he continues.
He’s nervous.
I put the sandwich down and turn in my seat so I can look up at him. “Is there something you need, or can I finish my lunch?”
Most people aren’t so direct and he’s momentarily surprised. He recovers quickly enough, pulling out the chair next to me and taking a seat. He removes his glasses, gently squeezing the bridge of his nose, and then puts them back.
“I realize it’s not exactly my business what you do once your contract is up, but I was wondering if you had any interest in sticking around here.”
It’s obviously a question, but he doesn’t make it sound like one. My mind jumps to Annabelle, the only reason I would have any interest in sticking around, but he hasn’t mentioned the idea of bringing her over to his side again, and I don’t want him to know she’s still on my mind.
I shake my head, a wordless no.
He nods, but disappointment flits across his features. “I was thinking… if you were looking for something a little more permanent, maybe I could use a guy like you.”
I’m not interested, not even a little bit, but I am curious, so I don’t immediately say so. “How do you mean? Protection?”
“No. Well… not precisely. A sort of protection.” He looks at me, trying to read me or something, but it doesn’t work, so he remains tentative. “After all is said and done and Pietro’s empire is toppled, there will be new opportunities, a very brief window before someone else comes into power. Money to be made.” He’s watching me for interest as he speaks, and I get the impression he’s holding back, but I’m also not dense, so I can fill in the pieces myself.
I cock my head slightly, but my face betrays nothing of my thoughts. “I thought this was about avenging your son.”
Scowling fiercely, he says, “This is about my son. Of course it is.”
I nod once, accepting his word for it.
I understand. It may be about vengeance, but Raj is an opportunist and the situation he’s creating is too great to pass up. He wants to take advantage of the chaos after the fall, and he needs muscle.
“Well, I like being a freelancer; I’m not looking for anything permanent,” I tell him.
“It wouldn’t have to be permanent. Just another job after you complete this one.”
I look at him and flash him a smile. “After this one, I’m taking a vacation.”
He looks disappointed. “I see. Well, if you change your mind….”
“I won’t.”
Raj stands and goes to leave, but after only a couple of steps, I hear his footsteps pause. I’m more alert, shoulders tensing. Ordinarily I’m not this tense doing a job, but ordinarily I don’t fuck around and catch feelings for the people involved. I can’t shake the feeling of being a double agent when I’m around Raj, or the concern that he might start to see that.
I half expect to be jumped several times a day at this point, whether at work, or when I show up back at the place I’m calling home right now. Raj’s guy or one of Pietro’s? Who fucking knows anymore. It’s no way to live.
“It’s important that the entire family be removed,” Raj finally says.
I don’t react, but he’s obviously talking about Annabelle. It makes me uneasy that he’s even bringing this up again, that he thinks I’m still worried about her.
He can’t trust me if he thinks that.
I can’t rely on him if he doesn’t know he can rely on me.
I wanna hurl my half eaten sandwich across the goddamn room. This is exactly why this sort of shit shouldn’t happen. Needless complications. This job was stressful enough before Annabelle had to pick her goddamn apples.
>
Back to the task at hand, I drop my sandwich and stand, turning to face Raj. I can tell by the step he takes backward that he’s afraid of me, and not just in the way you should be afraid of someone you’ve paid to help you kill an entire mob family.
Jumpier than that.
The kind of fear that makes a man unpredictable.
I turn back and pick up the envelope on the table, holding it out to him.
He frowns at the envelope, startled. “What…?”
“If you’re questioning my ability to see this job through, I can’t work for you anymore,” I tell him, simply.
Startled shifts to alarmed and his dark eyes go wide. “No! No, I… I wasn’t questioning you, Liam.”
“It sure sounds like you were, and I don’t believe I’ve given you cause to doubt me. I’ve done everything you asked of me, every step of the way.”
He can’t argue that, but it’s obviously not as cut and dry as I make it sound. “Annabelle…”
“I don’t like men who hit women,” I state, implacably, but detached. “I’ll be happy to kill her husband. I’d be happy to do it early, slowly, brutally.”
I can tell he doesn’t want to keep pushing, since, well, I just tried to quit on him right before show time, but he stands his ground, raises his chin, and asks, “And if Annabelle walks out of that house and into your crosshairs?”
“Then she dies,” I state.
I say it simply, unemotionally, but not coldly. As if we’re discussing a storm on the weather forecast—not ideal, but not something that’s going to ruin my life.
He accepts this and looks like a weight has been lifted. “I regret questioning your loyalty.”
“It isn’t a matter of loyalty,” I stated, turning and sitting back down, dropping the envelope full of cash and picking up the sandwich. “You paid me to do a job. The job will get done. Don’t insult me again and we’ll be fine.”
“Of course.”
I hear him leave and the space should feel bigger, less constricting. But the walls close in instead. I feel trapped, cornered. Not a feeling I’m accustomed to. Not a feeling I like. I was bluffing when I tried to give him back his money—I figure he can’t replace me at this point if he hasn’t already—but I can’t shake disappointment that he didn’t take me up on it. I’m making a lot of money on this job, but I’d give it all back if it meant washing my hands of this whole situation and getting the hell out of it.
If it meant going back in time and never meeting Annabelle.
I’m not afraid of her family, but I’m a little afraid of her.
She should be afraid of me, but Annabelle is never afraid when she should be.
I’ve tried to keep my distance since they’ve been watching her. Have kept my distance. But I still check in.
Now I need to get in.
Paul’s home, so I picked a shit time to show up. I can’t hang around or I risk drawing attention.
I drive around the neighborhood for a bit, looking for inspiration. I can’t get Paul out of the house, but if I go back later, maybe he’ll have left for that other chick’s bed.
Fucking idiot.
Knowing what I do now about how their “relationship” started, it makes more sense, but Jesus, doesn’t he have any fucking game? He couldn’t have won her over instead of trying to force her into submission? A couple days with her should’ve alerted the steaming pile of dogshit that he was taking the wrong approach, let alone a couple months, the first year. Learn to read the room, asshole. I guarantee if I was the asshole her stepfather forced her to marry, things would’ve turned out differently.
Jesus Christ, listen to me. Marriage. Ugh.
I wish I could just shoot him without ruining everything. One fucking shot from far away, boom—he’s gone.
It’s aggravating that I can’t. Literally in any other scenario I could just eliminate the obstacle standing in my way.
Fucking Raj.
Fucking mob families.
I wait until later to go back, and when I do, Paul’s truck is gone. Less fortunately, it isn’t the stupid cell phone fuck guarding her tonight, but the guy who actually watches—and boy, is he watching tonight. I observe him for a few minutes, and I’ve actually seen him walk along the far side of the house and check the back yard twice in the ten minutes since Paul left.
It’s not a risk I want to take, and it’s not pressing enough to justify it.
I wish I could walk around back and just peek in her bedroom window, just to see her. The light’s on, so she’s probably in there.
But it’s not worth it. I need to talk to her, and I will, but Paul’s gone a lot. I’ll come back tomorrow, and hopefully then it will be the younger kid.
Tomorrow I will kiss her.
Tomorrow I will hold her.
Tomorrow I will warn Annabelle not to go to that goddamn party.
Annabelle
“Pack your shit.”
I heard Paul rustling around in the closet when he got home, but the weight of something being thrown on top of me as I lay curled up under my blankets gives me a jolt.
I don’t understand what he’s doing, but I don’t have the energy to deal with it. I’m not up to engaging and it shows as I roll over, scowling, then craning to see what he threw at me.
A suitcase.
“What?” I ask, bleary and confused.
He looks tired. Dim. Worn down. Older than last time I took a good, long look at him.
“Get up.”
I’m confused, and his words aren’t registering. They can’t. I don’t have the experience to reconcile his actions with his words.
“Why?”
“Because you need to pack. Your. Shit,” he says, enunciating slowly, like I’m especially dense.
“Why am I packing my shit?” Still frowning. Still confused. Still not getting it.
He sighs, like I’m being aggravating.
“Come on, Annabelle.”
I do sit up, slowly, but I’m still bewildered.
“You’re going to stay with your mom,” he says.
Fear coils around my gut like a snake, squeezing the breath right out of me. “What? No! No, I’m not.”
“You have to. You don’t have anywhere else to go,” he states, with the sureness of a man who never has his life decided for him.
I don’t know what I’m feeling. Well, terror. Terror. I don’t want to go. I can’t go back there.
“Why? Why? Are we going…?”
But I know before I ask, I know. I understand. He’s given up on me. It’s hard to wrap my head around it, after years of him fighting to hold onto me, of fighting me, I never thought I’d live to see the day he willingly released me. I’d fantasized about it a couple of times, but it wasn’t realistic so I didn’t make it so far as to plan where I would end up if he did.
He doesn’t meet my gaze. “Pack your clothes. What you need now, at least. I’ll send the rest later.”
“You’re leaving me.” The words sound foreign coming out of my mouth. They sound wrong. He’s not my real husband and I don’t want anything to do with him…
But he’s all I have.
Without him, without anything of my own, I’m at the mercy of my mother. I picture myself packing up a suitcase and being hauled over to my old house (I don’t imagine I’ll be allowed to keep my car). Trudging up the steps of my old home, pushing open the squeaky door of my old bedroom, and being stuck there. Helpless. Even more helpless than I am here, and surrounded by everything that makes me feel sick.
I hear a wheezing noise, and it takes a minute to realize it’s coming from me. I can’t breathe. My chest feels thick, closing in more by the second, and I’m sick to my stomach. I try to breathe but I’ve waited too late and I’m panicking.
Paul mutters a curse and sits on the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t know what to do.
“I can’t,” I gasp out, desperation clawing at my insides and seeping out of my goddamn eyeballs. Years of concealing my fear and
this, this is the moment I lose control. When the motherfucker kicks me out.
Unsure whether I’m saying I can’t, as in I can’t breathe, or objecting to moving back in with my awful mother and the suffocating feelings my childhood home stirs in me, Paul stands, paces, grabs his cell phone like he’s going to call someone, but then looks to me for direction.
Goddammit, he’s never been good in a crisis.
I claw at my chest, my fucking aching chest, and it hurts to be trapped inside my brain. I just want out.
I start rocking. I don’t try to steady my breathing. My vision is starting to waver on account of no oxygen coming in and lots of desperate, explosive attempts to breathe, and I’m so. Fucking. Helpless.
Tears spring to my eyes but they don’t fall. I think. I’m not sure.
Everything gets far away, everything feels so strange, and then everything goes black.
I guess I didn’t really pass out.
I don’t know, but nobody mentioned it.
I have no memory of what happened after that.
I only have now, sitting on the ugly floral couch at my mother’s, running my hands across the coarse fabric, using my index finger to trace the pink rose.
Pretty. It’s so pretty.
Wait, it’s pretty? I thought it was ugly. I’ve always hated this couch, haven’t I?
Who cares.
I feel light and floaty and only dimly aware of my problems. They’re there, somewhere, in the shadows, but I’m so fine, and I need to be fine, so I accept it and don’t complain.
I feel myself smile—literally. I bring my fingers to my face and feel my skin stretching. Then I laugh, because… I’m not sure, actually.
Suddenly, my mother is there. I lean back, looking up at her, and my head falls back against the couch, because wow, my head is heavy!
I feel like I’m supposed to say something to her. Ask her something. What was it?
Oh!
“Paul,” I say, holding an unsteady hand up. “Where’s Paul?”
My mother’s face turns sympathetic and she perches on the edge of the couch. Leaning in, she places a hand on my leg and rubs it, as if to comfort me. “Oh, honey.”
