Chapter 2 – Gabriella #2
Squealing, the little girls rushed into the office.
But my father didn’t join them. He ghosted through the door, closing it part way, and then rounded on me.
I didn’t move quickly enough. His fist descended, striking my side with a vicious force.
Gasping, I knew better than to cry out. The pain was a vice, banding around my lungs. My muscles spasmed in shock.
“How many times have I told you not to corrupt them with your godless ways,” he hissed. “I won’t have my other daughters tainted with your blight.”
“I wasn’t going to talk to them,” I protested. “Just a smile, a hello, and a goodnight hug.”
Normal interactions. Ones that he usually insisted upon. For appearance, I was allowed small moments with the girls.
But he wasn’t in a tolerant mood tonight.
“You stay away from your sisters!” he hissed, sticky-sweet brandy perfuming the air. “The sooner you’re gone, the better.”
I scooted down the hall and up the stairs.
Each step was agony, since I still couldn’t draw a proper breath.
But I didn’t stop. Not until I was safe on the third floor, which was a glorified attic.
Francesca’s room was up here, and the smaller space, the one with a three-by-two window was where I’d been stuck after my international sabbatical.
Cupping my side, I leaned against the closed door.
I winced as the tender flesh pulsed with fresh pain.
I wasn’t always forced into isolation from my family.
When he was in a good mood, Papa insisted I join them for supper.
Or he urged me to go out in public with my mother and sisters. Appearance was everything.
But when he was angry, he forgot that we were supposed to pretend that I wasn’t the black sheep.
I peeled off my shirt, discovering that I couldn’t lift my left arm high without whimpering.
Dammit, that was one of the worst yet. I didn’t know what a cracked rib was like, but I’d heard the guys talk about it enough in the restaurant.
Since I still couldn’t breathe normally, all I wanted to do was lie down.
But there was one thing first.
I unclasped my bra, reached into the hole where the foam pad lay, and tugged out the money. Fifty-seven dollars. I crouched against the bed, realizing I was going to have to shift the frame with a bummed side. It was tempting to hide the money elsewhere.
But fear of my father discovering it gave me the strength to scoot the heavy metal frame the half-foot I needed to access the plank in the floor. That was the good thing about the unfinished space up here. There was the ability to manipulate my surroundings to create hiding places.
A quick calculation told me that eight months of scrimping brought my total to just over a thousand dollars.
Not enough….
I placed the board over my treasure, tugged the bed back in place, and crawled into bed. I didn’t have the energy to undress further. My black slacks were grimy from the shift, but who cared? I moaned and brought my hands over my side.
Focusing on the fact that I’d survived, I tried to calm my racing heart.
But my body didn’t listen. It refused to recognize that I was momentarily safe. After the encounter with my father and the earlier brush with death, every fiber of my being was on high alert.
My hands skated lower, brushing over the soft expanse of my belly. The ghost of an ache throbbed keenly there. It was ever present, far more prominent when I was alone. This memory had the ability to overpower the current pain radiating from my side.
It was a loss that scarred my soul.
I whimpered and curled into myself. A thousand bucks wouldn’t save me. Not fast enough. And if my husband didn’t allow me to work, I didn’t see a way to escape.
“I could always kill him,” I muttered.
Death and I were acquaintances. If push came to shove, I was brave enough to take a life.
It wasn’t like it was hard, just immoral.
But it wasn’t the black mark on my soul I feared.
It was living with the consequences. Mob politics were a dangerous game of chess, and as a widow, it would be infinitely more complicated to stay out of the spotlight and maneuver my way out of this hell.
No, I wouldn’t kill my husband.
I would be stuck with the masked devil. A prisoner, living in a gilded cage. Possibly for years.
“Oh, dio!” I gasped but then hissed sharply as the sudden exhaled breath punched my battered side. The pain wasn’t strong enough to stop my mind racing. I was getting married. That meant…oh, dio sopra, that meant something worse than being trapped by a murderous monster.
My husband would want a baby.
No, no! “I can’t have a baby with him.”
But I didn’t see a way out of that. A good mob wife would lie there and take it. Marriage meant starting a family. That was what I was, after all. A cow, bartered and sold. Ready to be bred.
My fingers curled into fists over the ghost in my belly. That would tie me far more permanently to the Irish mobster.
How the hell was I getting out of that portion of this arrangement?
Closing my eyes, I fought through the rising nausea.
Prevention required medical assistance. I would have to find birth control, spend my precious savings to purchase some.
But the risk of going to a clinic was too great.
One of my father’s soldiers might find out.
And I couldn’t go to anyone at the restaurant, to have them purchase it on my behalf.
I racked my brains trying to think of anyone else.
Maybe…maybe Amanda Messina would do it. She seemed helpful. She’d told me that she wanted to help. Granted, she’d been talking about getting me out of a marriage, which she had no idea was impossible. But this? This was practical. This was something she could do.
“No good,” I muttered, wrapping my arms around myself after clutching the folded blanket at the foot of the twin bed.
Amanda worked for McDonagh. While I could tell her to keep the transaction a secret, she might slip up. That was the best-case scenario. The worst? She would outright tell my soon-to-be husband what she’d done. I didn’t think she was spiteful. But either way, using her was a risk.
With a sigh, I tried to push the problem off. There would be all day tomorrow to dwell on it. Right now, I just needed to sleep. To recover the best I could. Instead of drifting to sleep, though, I stroked the deep divots that stretched the skin on my belly and mourned.
***
The plan came to me in the wee hours of the morning.
It wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing.
I had exactly a hundred dollars tucked back in my bra.
The one ray of silver lining was that it hadn’t been as hard to move the bedframe this morning.
My side ached with a dull twinge, not the outright throb that had made me toss and turn. The ribs probably weren’t broken.
Hurrying down Cherry Drive, I made it to the trendy bakery in good time.
It wasn’t a great plan. For one, my mother would likely tell my father she’d given me twenty bucks for coffee.
It wasn’t wholly unusual that I purchased things for the employees.
Papa would only be upset that I didn’t ask him.
He liked to shower the members and associates of the famiglia with gifts.
The more pressing difficulty? If the proprietress was even there.
I pushed inside, instantly enveloped in the scent of sugar and spice.
The walls were painted a warm brown. Plants hung from pots on the wall next to gorgeous paintings with ludicrous price tags.
They were soft impressions of the countryside, blurred images of churches or haunting abstracts of crumbling castles.
Sweeping a glance around the space, my shoulders sagged with relief to see that Nicole Messina was behind the counter, taking orders. She had three employees bustling about, crafting beverages or plucking iced cookies from the display case.
I skipped the line, ignoring the grumpy looks from the customers. “Morning, Nicole.”
The blonde perked up, smiling at me as I stopped beside the counter. “Gabriella! What brings you in?”
Damn her, but she made pregnancy look good. Plump and pretty, wearing a flowing dress that made her swollen belly pop.
That could have been me.
I adjusted my button up shirt. “I need a dozen cookies for the restaurant.”
“Ma’am, there’s a line.” A prim woman leaned from her place in it to give me a snotty glare.
“Can we have a word?” I added quietly, ignoring the scolding Karen.
Nicole gave me a funny look. We weren’t friends. I hadn’t been the most pleasant whenever Cristiano brought her to the restaurant. Professional, always. But nice? How could I? She’d married the eligible—and more likeable—son of Don Morelli’s other capo.
“Of course,” she said, confusion lacing her words. “Karliegh? Can you take over the POS?”
When the other aproned employee came to the till, Nicole gestured for me to take a seat.
I shook my head. “In private. Please.”
“Oh! Now I’m curious.” Nicole laughed. She waddled behind the counter, and I dogged after her. We passed the door that led into the kitchen, going to the one beyond, which Nicole paused to unlock. It spilled into her inner sanctum—an art studio.
Rumor had it that Cristiano had made the windows bulletproof.
A camera winked in the corner, clearly showing that the mobster had eyes on his wife at all times.
Before she closed the door, I caught sight of the two guards glaring at us.
Made Men, soldiers entrusted with keeping her safe.
But if Cristiano’s obsessive need to protect his wife bothered her, Nicole didn’t show it.
“Uff, I needed to take a break anyhow,” Nicole sighed, falling into a lounge chair. “I won’t be working much longer.”
Her laughter tinkled, bright and light.
No wonder the Messina boys were smitten with the Loring girls. They were gorgeous, funny, and winning.
I hated them on principle, even if they hadn’t stolen the most eligible bachelors in the famiglia.
“What can I do for you? You didn’t just come for some cookies.” Nicole tipped her head to the side, guessing that I was about to demand a big favor.
Pretty and shrewd. The whole package.
“I need birth control,” I said, steeling my spine. There was no point beating around the bush. “Can I pay you to get it?”
Her twin golden brows shot to her forehead. She whistled. “Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.
“Why can’t you go? You know they tailor that stuff to your physiology,” she added, running a look down my body, before returning her blue gaze to mine.
“Please?” I hated that she was making me beg. “It’s important.”
“I mean, I can.” She drummed her finger against her belly. The area jumped—a baby kick.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away. “What will it cost me?”
Nicole blew out a short laugh. “Just tell me why? Why come to me?”
“Because I can’t.” I fisted the material of my slacks.
Nicole dropped the pleasant facade. “Look, you’ve been nothing but nasty ever since I started dating Cristiano. If you want my help, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
Shifting in my ugly, anti-slip shoes, I huffed. “The famiglia is ultra-religious. My father doesn’t want me touching the stuff. But I’m….” Oh, dio, she was going to make me say it. I gulped. “I’m getting married, and I want to have a shred of control in the situation.”
“Oh,” she breathed, leaning forward as far as her protruding belly allowed. “Oh, I see. I’m so sorry you can’t just go to a clinic. But…why me?”
Numb flooded my veins in a chilly rush. “I need a way that won’t get back to my father.”
With a concerted effort, Nicole heaved her luminous figure from the chair. She ambled over and placed a hand on my shoulder. I hid my flinch.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t know,” she assured me.
Reaching up, and subtly shaking her off, I fished the money from my bra. “Here. That should cover the cost. Let me know how much you want for it, and I’ll bring the money when you bring the pills.”
Nicole looked at the bill in my hand. She pursed her lips, reached out, but didn’t take it. She folded my fingers over the money. “Keep that.”
“I’m not doing this for free,” I protested, my tone a touch sharp.
Her smile widened. Teeth flashed. “Neither am I. From now on, you’re going to be much, much nicer to me when we go out for dinner.”
“I am nice,” I grumbled.
“I mean genuinely.” Nicole tapped my fingers. “I’ll get the pills. Your dad won’t know. But you’re going to stop scowling when you think I can’t see you. Got it?”
“Fine.” I dropped my hand. And then, because I owed her big time, I breathed, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome!” she chirped. “Us girls have got to stick together in the underworld.”
While that sentiment was good in principle, it didn’t apply. She was happily married to a man with loose connections to the mob. I was the prize being bartered between organizations. We were not the same.
“Let’s get those cookies,” Nicole said, moving back toward the bakery. “How many did you need?”
“Two dozen.” I tried to feel hopeful. Keeping a pregnancy at bay would buy me time. Saving the money intended for the pills would aid the plan to escape.
“Here.” I handed Nicole the twenty.
She looked at it, tried to hide the smirk, then ended up laughing. “That wouldn’t even get you four cookies with tax.”
I scowled. “Then forget it.”
“No, no!” she said brightly. “The cookies are for the family. I’ll make you a couple boxes.”
It was hard to feel powerful, in charge of my destiny, when I was such a walking charity case. Fuming, I battled the urge to walk out the door. She wanted me to be nice? I had to grovel to get what I needed. Grovel, smile, and pretend I liked it.