Chapter 18 – Gabriella
The Bay Front Park was a little over a mile away.
The moment I realized that I mapped the route on my new phone, I committed it to memory and felt better about my Tuesday.
It took some convincing to make the guards agree to go.
I kept my spine straight and didn’t budge.
My midmorning journalling time was sacred, and they caved.
I suspected Liam had something to do with it. One of them was texting furiously as I made my case, but in the end, we took off walking.
Me and seven burly Irishmen. The other eight stayed behind to guard the house. After visiting my parents, the number of guards doubled.
I tried not to read into that.
Hell, I tried to ignore the fact that I had such a large entourage. They weren’t a chatty bunch. Trying to engage them in conversation was like pushing a boulder uphill. In a thunderstorm.
“Those cookies look good,” the one with a shaved head and Celtic runes tattooed on his skull finally said.
I only rationed myself three. “They’re breakfast biscuits.”
His roving gaze flicked to the last one. “You eat cookies for breakfast?”
“It’s a lighter meal, yes,” I hedged.
“Where….” He cleared his throat. “Where do you get them?”
“When I left my parent’s house Saturday morning, the guys let me stop at the grocer.” I held it out to him. “Mulino Bianco is the brand. Homemade are better, but I didn’t have the ingredients.”
The tips of his ears went pink. “I shouldn’t.”
“You know you want to.” The loss of my breakfast made my stomach pinch, but it was fun watching such a short, vicious-looking man squirm.
“The Dolce Vita store on 7th?” he pressed.
I nodded, urging him to take the last cookie.
“I’ll bring you more tomorrow,” he offered and took the biscuit.
“Hey, don’t drop it!” Another guard snatched a dime-sized crumb midair and popped it in his mouth.
An idea began to form in my mind. I didn’t have the resources, but if there was a way to bake things….
Catch more flies with honey.
With a spring in my step, I rounded the sidewalk and strode through the metal gate.
My favorite bench was empty, and I marched right up to take a seat.
The blithering idiocies I’d scrawled last week covered the left page, but the blank page on the right stared back at me.
There wasn’t a risk that my father or mother would read this.
Did I have to drone on about the virtues of living a docile life?
“Fuck that,” I muttered.
Pulling the horn necklace from my shirt, I popped it between my lips.
I wore the charm less often, because what was the point of warding myself against the evil eye when I had a beast for a husband?
Smiling around the pendant, I flipped the page for good measure.
A fresh start. There might be seven goons milling about the park, patrolling for danger, but married life suddenly felt freeing! I took a deep breath of air.
I’m free.
Those two words stared back at me. Open lines waited for thoughts on what that felt like.
I wrote and wrote, scribbling ideas. I let myself pretend that I was able to build the life I wanted.
What would my home look like? How would I spend my days?
I could work where I wanted, shop, spend, and read anything.
I don’t regret marrying. Liam is the start to a new chapter.
Was I going to leave him? Absolutely. I wasn’t idiotic enough to confide that truth to the page. But it was there, subtext under the words. I let my pen sort through my feelings for him.
I like Liam. For a man in his occupation, he’s a good one.
I think I annoy him. He’s always so gruff when we’re together—not that I see much of him.
But he tolerates me. He isn’t mean. I think if we got to know one another better, we would actually get along.
I don’t know if that will happen anytime soon, but the possibility is there.
That’s more than a girl like me can hope for being married to a stranger.
Reading over the pages and pages of real, uncensored thoughts, I realized how tangled my feelings for Liam actually were.
I wrote some more, hoping to make sense of the tight little knot in my chest.
So invested in my journalling, I didn’t pay much attention to the other souls passing by. If it wasn’t for the long shadow of the bassinet stroller, I would have missed my reason for coming here.
I sat back suddenly. My head snapped up. The mom was scrolling on her phone. She didn’t catch my smile. But the little boy in the basket? He was awake, sucking viciously on a pacifier. He paused when our gaze collided.
Those light brown eyes blinked.
He gave me a gummy smile, the paci falling out.
An intense heat, unlike anything I ever felt, rushed through my chest. Such a beautiful child. Happy. Healthy. Hers.
The mom passed in at a clipped pace. Going around the bend a second later, I lost sight of the boy. His wail echoed back across the path. The mom stooped, annoyance flitting across her profile as she jabbed the pacifier back in his mouth.
“Quit spitting it out then,” she snapped.
I curled my fingers around my pen. If that was me, I would have plucked the baby out.
I knew how heavy they could feel, squirming at being held.
But walking while holding the child would be my preferred method.
I would never let the sweet boy go. I would show him the pretty trees, the animals scampering about, and the other sights, sounds, smells of the park.
Sighing, I sat back in my seat.
My phone chimed a moment later. I looked down, brows knitting at the text message.
Father: Just a reminder, your weekly confession is in thirty minutes. You haven’t left yet.
Horror washed through me. I wanted to drop the phone, stung by the realization that my father was tracking me. I left the message unread and scrolled through the apps to discover how that was possible. I didn’t see Life 360 or any other thing else that would tell him where I was.
“That’s the last time I take this anywhere,” I grumbled.
I’d suspected the gift of a phone came with strings attached.
I should have known that he meant to keep a close eye on me.
But why? I was married to the rival family.
Did he think I would renege on our contract?
A rough laugh barked in my throat. That was the plan, but not because I meant to cause trouble for Don Morelli.
No, when I left, it was because I would be free, truly free of everything.
Closing my journal, I tapped out a short, precise reply.
Me: I’m a McDonagh now. They attend church at St. Patrick’s. I’ll be seeing the priest there for confessions.
Had my father been speaking with our minister about the conversations we had under the sacred veil of confession? It wouldn’t surprise me.
Good thing I never told Father Giacomo anything.
While I had no intentions of going to confession now that I wasn’t under the thumb of my parents, I debated the wisdom of defying that unspoken order. Papa was tracking me. He would see that I never went to mass—that I never took the phone anywhere.
I was going to have to take the damn thing places. Or he would know that I was onto him. He must think I was pretty dumb if I hadn’t figured that out based on his text.
I can work with this.
Just like I planned to manipulate Liam’s soldiers, I could also juggle my father. And that was better than open defiance. Papa might be bold enough to take his displeasure out on me. If not, he would take it out on my mother. Maybe my sisters.
Closing my journal with a snap, I rose and walked to the baddy with runes. “I’m done here, Jacob. But how far is the church?”
His confusion was priceless.
***
St. Patrick’s was twice the size of our local church. As we marched into the sanctuary, I was struck by the size and wondered why we didn’t have the wedding here. It would have been far more comfortable given the amount of the Irish mobsters who’d turned out to see their masked prince tie the knot.
Father Rowan rose from the pew where he’d been bent in prayer. He came over to introduce himself and led me to a confessional booth.
I slipped inside, letting the confines of the box envelope me. A few minutes later, the panel slid back and the holy rite began.
“And what sins do you wish to confess, my child?” the priest asked softly.
Chewing on my lip, I considered how best to play this. While a Man of God shouldn’t reveal anything that was spoken in here, I knew better than to trust him.
He was Irish after all.
The sooner I discovered whether he was a spy for Liam, the better.
“I stole a hundred dollars from my father’s nightstand,” I blurted out. “But I don’t think I’m sorry for it.”
There was no gasp of shock, only quiet understanding. “Do you wish to elaborate? Perhaps I can help guide you through that misdeed?”
“Well, there weren’t any groceries in our house, and I haven’t seen my husband to discuss shopping. Since I didn’t have any money of my own, I took it to feed myself.” There. I kind of hoped the information did find its way to Liam.
It would serve him right to hear from his local religious authority that his husbandly duty of providing had been found lacking on the most basic level.
“Since that is the case, I’ll assign you ten Hail Maries in penance,” Father Rowan said not unkindly. “What other sins plague your heart, my daughter?”
An image from the park flitted through my mind. The smile, the responding rush of human nature over the small interaction—it hurt. Badly. While I’d never confided any details of my greatest sin, I wanted the healing that came from a true confession to my heartache.
“I confess to the sin of envy,” I whispered, unable to stop myself. “Not of anything in particular,” I added hurriedly. “Just that my life is not my own, and the things I want seem out of my reach.”
Father Rowan was silent for a moment. “This is a tricky one. Being envious of others can lead to two paths. On the first, we act in ways that are wrong to take what we desire. But on the second, that is more thought-provoking. A mental exercise, if you will. When challenged properly, envy can drive us to do things, to seek out opportunities, to better accomplish goals.”
“Like manifesting the life we want?” I leaned closer, straining to catch what he said.
No one had ever taken the time to talk to me like this.
“That’s a New Age way of thinking, but yes, the comparison stands.” Father Rowan hummed under his breath. “I’m not going to assign penance for this. Not yet. I want you to think about how you can take this temptation and turn it into something good.”
“Huh….” I tapped my heel on the floor. Suddenly, the idea of coming to confession didn’t seem like such a chore.
This man was almost like therapy. Not that I trusted him, but the relief trickling through me was almost overwhelming.
“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me about that,” I said honestly. “I never thought of it that way.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” The smile in his voice was audible.
It was tempting to tell him that this conversation was freeing. But I decided to keep that revelation to myself. I’d spilt enough secrets today.