Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TRIXIE
Iwas born into the Mafia, nurtured by violence, surrounded by Made Men. My given name was Patricia, supposedly a noble name, the feminine version of Patrick, a reference to the ruling class in ancient Rome, but I had red, not blue blood, running through my veins.
Having planned for many children, sons to follow in their footsteps, my parents were disappointed when they ended up with just me. As a woman, I was of no use, except for what my body would bring them by way of an alliance within the Mafia hierarchy.
At just sixteen, I was wed to the underboss, a man who could advance my father’s status.
He was thirty years older than me. I was young and na?ve.
I even had childish dreams on my wedding day, foolishly excited to run my own household and escape from my restrictive childhood.
I hadn’t had a say in who was to be my husband, and was wary of the age difference, but I assumed everything would be okay.
In the Mafia, my early marriage wasn’t unusual.
The only tools I’d taken with me were the ingrained respect that I’d been taught to have for my betters and the knowledge of how to behave in polite society.
I knew that women kept quiet and only spoke when spoken to.
But none of my so-called education prepared me for the brutality of the man to whom I now belonged.
I survived ten years of mental and physical abuse. I’d gotten pregnant, but that hadn’t deterred my husband from using his fists. Two pregnancies, and both ended due to his vicious attacks. Then he had the gall to accuse me of being infertile or incompetent at carrying a baby to full term.
It proved impossible to extract myself from the hell I was living in, especially as I realised the way I was being treated wasn’t particularly exceptional.
I’d accepted my treatment, behind closed doors, was nothing unusual.
Never to be complained about or discussed, and if other Mafia wives wore heavy makeup in public, no one asked about it.
Ten years it continued. That final evening, I forgot what I did to anger him…
it was something so trivial. His attack was maniacal.
His fists kept coming until I didn’t think he was going to stop.
When he finally ceased, he’d left me lying on the floor in agony, then went out for the evening as if nothing had happened.
When I started coughing up blood, I knew this time, he’d done serious damage.
I remember it like yesterday, have perfect recall of how agonisingly slowly, I’d slithered across the floor and painfully pulled myself into a sitting position so I could reach my purse.
Extracting my phone, I’d called 911. Then, knowing better than to anger Piero further, I’d crawled out of the apartment and taken the lift down to the parking garage, from where I’d asked the paramedics to collect me.
As I’d hoped, they’d assumed I was the victim of a mugging.
In the past, when my injuries had required medical treatment, Piero had taken me to a private clinic, where everyone was afraid of him. This time, I was taken to the local hospital, where he would have no control over the medical staff. I didn’t immediately realise what a blessing that would be.
Even at that, my lowest moment, I had no thought of running away.
How could I? I had no access to money, just the meagre household account that he put money into.
I had no qualifications. I’d gotten married before I could complete my GED.
I had never done a day’s work outside of keeping house, and even then, we had a housekeeper who’d cooked and cleaned.
Most importantly, I knew no one outside of the Mafia family.
Nor could I appeal to my parents. My father had been promoted to consigliere only days after my marriage.
The only escape I could look forward to would be when Piero went too far and killed me.
I’d awoken to the sound of beeping machines and my husband’s angry voice. “What do you mean she’s got to stay here? I want her moved to a clinic of my choice.”
“Mr. Alongi, your wife suffered serious injuries when she was mugged. She had internal bleeding. She’s got three broken ribs, and her spleen was so badly damaged that it had to be removed.
She’s also suffered a serious head injury, which we still need to monitor for any residual brain bleed.
I’m afraid she’s far too weak and poorly to move.
It was touch-and-go when she was brought in.
Moving her could put her life in jeopardy. ”
I heard my husband’s footsteps storming off.
It was only then that I opened my eyes to find a nurse looking at me with sympathy.
Seeing that I was awake, she went through some basic checks, replaced the bag of fluid flowing through the IV, and asked questions to confirm my memory was intact, and that my vision appeared to be normal.
Once she was satisfied, she paused by the side of the bed.
“You were reportedly a victim of a random mugging.” Her features grew taut.
“But your husband can’t hide his split knuckles.
Unless he’s a bare-knuckled fighter, then I reckon your injuries are down to him.
” I started to deny it, but she shook her head.
“You’ve got a long road to recovery, and the lack of a spleen will affect you the rest of your life.
I’ve seen your X-rays. You’ve had broken ribs before, and other improperly healed injuries.
” She breathed in, then sighed deeply. “If you go back to him, next time he might kill you. It was hit-or-miss this time, as it is. If you hadn’t been able to call for help, you’d have died from internal bleeding. ”
I’d shuddered, wondering whether it was a good or bad thing that I’d lived. Avoiding that subject, I’d focused on one thing she’d said. “What do you mean by the lack of spleen affecting me?”
She rolled her eyes. “It means you’ll be immunocompromised.
The spleen filters out bacteria, and without it, your body won’t cope well with infection.
You’ll have to stay up to date with your vaccinations, maybe have ones you didn’t think necessary before.
Trying to avoid anyone with an illness will help, and the doctor will prescribe antibiotics to take daily for at least the next couple of years, maybe longer.
As long as you adhere to the advice you’re given, you should be able to live a long, healthy life without too much adjustment to your daily routine.
The fact is, though, whoever hit you…” she paused to turn her head toward the door where Piero had disappeared, “has given you a lifelong disability.”
Broken bones heal. This was something different. I’d known since my wedding day, but have never admitted to anyone before, what I then told her in a whisper. “I hate him.”
She gave a delicate snort as if she’d never believed differently. “You need to get away.”
Ashamed to admit it, my voice was a whisper. “I can’t.”
She stared at me for a moment. “Is that really a can’t, or a won’t?”
“He wouldn’t let me go. He’d find me.”
She pursed her lips. “If I can give you a chance to get out of here and disappear, would you take it?”
“In a heartbeat.” With that one statement, my fate was sealed.
I didn’t know how any escape could work.
Piero had left one of his soldato outside the door, ostensibly for my protection.
It was the third day in the hospital when the world erupted with gunshots out in the parking lot.
The sounds had gotten today’s guard, Roberto, leaving his post by my door, and rushing away to see what the commotion was.
From there, it all went like clockwork. A man wearing a biker’s leather vest, with the patches on the front denoting both that his name was Irish and that he was the VP, had strolled into my room pushing a wheelchair.
Before I could blink, I was in it, then traveling down in the elevator from where I was taken to a blacked-out SUV and settled with pillows and blankets in the back.
Perhaps I was foolish to put my life in the hands of a man I’d only just met, but I immediately trusted Irish.
I didn’t understand why he was so invested in helping me, but I was grateful he did.
He was putting miles between me and my abusive husband, and that was all I needed to know.
Once the initial fears of being caught had faded, I’d relaxed.
And, being doped up with painkillers, I’d fallen asleep, waking only when we slowed and stopped at a gas station.
I roused only to ask, “Where are we?”
“We’ve just crossed into New Jersey. Got to top off the tank.
” His grimace as he checked in on me made me realise I must have looked as bad as I felt.
“Sorry, doll. We’ve got another three hours to go today.
You think you can make it?” He’d rifled through his pockets and brought out a couple of bottles, which he handed to me along with some water.
“Painkillers, antibiotics and shit. Rose, your nurse, gave them to me for you.”
“What’s going to happen to me?” I’d asked, conscious I was still wearing a hospital gown. I had no clothes and no money.
“For now, you’re in the hands of the Kings of Anarchy,” he’d grunted. “We’ve got no love for the Mafia, or men who abuse women. We’ll get you somewhere safe where he’ll never look for you and just trust the rest will fall into place.”