19. Alice
19
ALICE
I couldn’t sleep. After my stupid attempt at running away and Mario subsequently getting angry with me, I lay in his arms and tossed and turned for hours. He’s awake now, seated at the dining room table, probably doing business that he should be out doing. But he feels the need to stay here now, to babysit me. I’m not under lock and key, but I may as well be with him jumping at every creak of the floorboards. He thinks they’ll come for us today—yet another reason I’m unable to rest.
I creep to the door and peek out. He’s there, poring over something on his phone. I wonder if it’s just some sort of social media or if he’s reading the news. I watch him type but don’t know if he’s texting someone. When he looks up, I back into the darkness of the bedroom. He can’t see me in here watching him, but I can see everything he does. He doesn’t have to watch me. I’m not leaving again.
I’ve learned my lesson, and I know I’m safer here with him. I was gone less than two hours and Paolo’s men were on my trail. As if they have eyes and ears in every neighborhood, they were onto me before I even got out of the city. Mario is right. If I’m going to escape LA, I’m going to need help getting out of town first. After that, I think I can manage to slip away undetected and possibly vanish for good. But then I thought I could get away the first time, too.
My shoulders ache, stress tightening every muscle in my body but settling in my neck and upper back the worst. I reach up and rub the stiff muscle as I walk back to bed and crawl beneath the covers. It’s late afternoon already. Mario has to know I’m awake in here, but he’s still upset with me. I hate that I’ve angered him. I never meant to. I’m just impulsive and stir-crazy, and the two don’t mix very well.
In fact, a lot of things in my life aren’t mixing very well. Like my desire to be free from the life I’m living and the fact that I’m having Mario’s baby. That test result was a shock to my core—not because I didn’t expect it but because it confirmed my worst fear. I’m going to be tied to Paolo Gatti and his Family for the rest of my life. Even Tom, as messed up as he was, wouldn’t have wanted this. He’d have wanted me to get away from here. It makes sense now why he was stealing money and why he procrastinated having children. It was all to protect me. He really did love me.
Mario loves me too, in his own way. Sometimes, I feel like the affection he has for me is rooted in this complex he has—to be my savior. What a sinister savior he is, too, using any means necessary to defend my honor and protect my life. It’s humbling and humiliating at the same time, that I need someone like him to protect me. How did I let myself be so blind to my former husband’s secret life? How could I let this happen?
And now I’m pregnant with a Mafia baby. Even this is a horrible choice. My hands cradle my stomach, and I feel emotion making my chest swell. I want to be a mother so desperately, to hold a tiny baby in my arms and be reminded of the innocence of life. To get a do-over with my child, break the curse of this wretched life I’m living under. But a Mafia baby? Mario’s child?
Being with Mario, raising his child, would mean constantly watching my back. His enemies and even the men who report to him would always be a threat. I’d be watching over my shoulder the rest of my life. Albeit, I’ll be doing that anyway, but if I’m alone, not tied to him, I’ll have a greater measure of confidence that a strange face is just a strange face, not a stalker lying in wait.
And is it ethical to bring a child into the world when I know damn well he or she will be born to a life of crime? Can I raise him or her in the atmosphere of death and deceit and not carry a burden of built and shame the rest of my life? Not to mention what people will say about me. Men like Mario and Paolo aren’t strangers to criticism and the public eye. My life will be under a spectacle of public opinion, and I could fall prey to vicious accusations of working together with them in their criminal acts. Do I really want this?
The first few tears well up and I blink them away, but soon, they’re flowing freely. My pillow grows moist and my chest begins to ache the more I dwell on all the negative side effects that could happen if I stay here with Mario. Will he even let me leave? If he knows I’m pregnant, he will want his child. Any man would. He will want to raise his son or daughter, teach them the good things in life, have them follow in his footsteps. That thought makes me cry harder. Do I really want my baby to follow the path of the criminal underworld?
And what about the stereotypes? Is Mario just with me because of his God complex? Will he stay faithful to me? Because I’m not the type of woman to let my man sleep around, find other partners who satisfy him more, bring home sexual diseases which he passes to me. And what sort of a father would he be to our child if he did that? What sort of role model? Can I live with my choice if my heart gets broken beyond repair?
I’m wallowing in self-pity, obsessing over all the “what-ifs” and not thinking clearly about the present moment. If Paolo and his men show up to this church to find me and I’m not alert enough to know what’s going on, I’ll die for sure. There’s a good chance I’ll die, anyway. No one escapes from him for long, but if I could just rest a while, at least I’ll have a fighting chance when it goes down .
I press my eyes closed but the tears keep coming. I hope I’ll cry myself to sleep, but sleep doesn’t come. What does come is another round of fitful thoughts and worries that plague me. What will my family think? How will my baby have a normal life? Will I even be alive to carry this baby?
The tears become so intense I can barely breathe through my snot-filled nose. I reach for a tissue on the nightstand but accidentally knock the box, along with my phone, to the floor. The door swings open seconds later, and Mario rushes to my side and drops to his knees by the bed.
“Are you okay?”
If only I could say that I was okay. I’m not. I’m not going to be for a while, until this entire thing is over and Paolo is behind bars or permanently taken out of the game. I shudder to think there will be more killing, but it may be the only option Mario has now. I shake my head and sob harder, and he uses a tissue from the dropped box to wipe my face. I hate ugly crying, but Mario is the only person in the world I’d do it in front of without being ashamed.
“I’m scared,” I blub as I grab his hand and force him to cradle my cheek. His touch is what I need right now. I need to be tethered to the reality that someone cares, that someone—anyone—understands my situation and will fight for me. I need to know that someone is in charge, in control. That I don’t have to be the one to keep watch anymore. I don’t have to defend myself. This is what I’ve been trying to tell my therapist for months now, and she never understood. I’m not the captain of my own destiny. I’m a distraught, terrified woman who has suffered something unspeakable more than once.
“Hey,” he coos, then stands and sets his gun on the bedside table. Then he climbs over me and lies behind me. His thick bicep curls around my middle, pulling me back into his chest, and I can finally breathe.
Mario says nothing while I gather myself. He’s just the calm, reassuring strength I need to pull myself together. I like that he does this for me.
He doesn’t question or pry or ask what’s wrong. He just… understands, and his presence alone is enough to make the sobs recede. In its place, a numbness settles over me. I’m emotionally spent, drained, and all I can do is remain in this position as long as possible before sanity returns and I have to make the most important decision of my life. Do I tell him about the baby and risk my future?
“Mario,” I call, my voice shaking with emotion. He didn’t have to do this. He could have let me die, let me fend for myself after the mess I’d gotten us both into, but he didn’t. He cared enough to want to protect me—and his child, if I’m honest with myself. “I?—”
Mario presses a finger to my lips and shakes his head. “Shh, cara mia ,” he coos, stroking my wet cheek with his thumb. “I know.”
I look back at him over my shoulder. “You do?”
“Yes, I know.” He nods, and it’s then that I realize he probably does know. He knows everything. My life is an open book. He’s probably figured out the pregnancy by now, maybe the thoughts I have about fleeing too. “But there is time to talk about that later. Now, sleep,” he commands gently. “You need to rest, okay?”
The weight of everything lifts slightly, and I cling to him like a lifeline rope. His scent of cologne and leather invades my senses and soon lulls me into a fitful sleep where I dream of all the worst possible scenarios and wake up a few times, but he’s here, sitting in bed next to me, working on his phone. When I stir, he wraps himself around me again to comfort me, and I drift off once more.
It isn’t feasible for him to stay in bed with me all day and help me rest, but for now, I indulge. My body is worn out from anxiety and lack of sleep. We’ll deal with all of this when I wake up. If I don’t wake up to more gunfire.