Total pages in book: 260
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
My hands ball into fists as the door closes, and my breathing comes in ragged pants. The facade leaves me quickly. I hate him. With everything in my being, I hate him. I rise from the bed and look out my window. It’s nailed shut from the outside to keep me from jumping.
Outside, it’s dark and grey with clouds covering nearly every inch of the visible sky. It reflects everything that I feel.
I walk to my dresser, my eyes darting to the door. Inside the top drawer, I dig under the pile of shirts and pick up a small bag of heroin. I wrap my fingers around it tightly. I’ve never done the drug, or any others for that matter. I stole it. I've collected a few baggies over time, and I know I have enough to easily overdose now.
I’ve been thinking about suicide for a while, but I haven’t had the courage to end it. I don’t want to die; I just don’t want to live this life anymore. There’s a difference. I stare at the heroin, feeling every emotion wash over me. I knew one day I'd need it.
I would be a fool not to take the heroin with me. I need a way out in case my father doesn't come for me and leaves me there. In case that fate is worse than this. I open the drawer containing my underwear and select my favorite push-up bra. Quickly, I slide the packet into one of the pockets containing the padded inserts. I just hope that whoever takes me won't search my clothing too closely, but in my experience the perverts I've been exposed to care more about seeing a woman naked than her lingerie.
But hopefully it won't even come close to that. He’s giving me a chance to run. An opportunity I’ve prayed for.
Maybe God was listening. Maybe I’ll be free soon.
If not, if I can’t get away from my father, if I can’t get away from the Romanos... at least I'll have a way out.
Chapter 3
Grace
* * *
The hushed sounds of the restaurant and my own blood pumping in my ears are the only things I can hear. My eyes flicker to the bay window at the front as the bells at the entrance jingle, and another member of the familia walks through the glass double doors.
The restaurant is so quaint and gives off a family-friendly feel. The dark green cloth table linens and plaid curtains on the windows make this place look like the quintessential Italian restaurant. Even the soft music playing over the speakers gives an air of comfort.
It’s all bullshit. It’s a front, and the entire city knows it. I glance up and across the room at my father, seated at the table farthest from me as he talks animatedly to someone I haven’t met. He leans back as he laughs, the sound bellowing from his stomach. He looks jovial. That’s fake, too. Or is it? Maybe he’s happy that I’ll be gone soon. I still don’t know his intentions, but I don’t care. I’m grateful. Scared shitless and trying to control my emotions, but grateful.
The bells chime again, and I whip my head up to see another man walk through the doors. The restaurant is closed tonight. But that doesn’t mean anything.
I can feel their eyes on me. Everyone’s looking at me as they talk in indistinct voices. I’m not supposed to be here. Some are confused by my presence. Others are visibly anxious. A man across from me doesn’t bother to look away when I meet his eyes. His fingertips tap repeatedly on the wooden table. He clears his throat and breaks my gaze, running the back of his hand across his mouth and yelling out for someone named Joey to grab him a beer.
Maybe they all don’t know what’s going on, but some do.
I can’t help but look over my shoulder one more time, searching for Uncle Toni. I don’t know anyone in here other than my father. I think that may have been an intentional play by him. No one’s talked to me, but I have no intention of talking to them either.
Two firm hands grip my shoulders as I turn in my seat. I nearly yell out from the sudden touch, but the sight of my father’s cold eyes keeps me quiet. His fingers dig into my skin, and I wonder if the men can tell it hurts. If they do know, they don’t show it. They don’t try to stop him.
“Now.” He nods his head, and I’m frozen in place from the intensity. “Start walking down Broom Street.” He leans forward and plants a kiss on my forehead before releasing me.
His touch is gentle and unexpected. I have to blink several times before his expression changes back to the one I’m used to. The chair squeaks on the ground as I turn to do what I’m told. I’m still surviving. Just a little longer until I don’t have to obey. Until I can run.