Eleven
It’s been six blissful months.
We’re living in a shabby basement bedsit in Newark, close to where Aspen’s got herself a second job working at the Museum of Art in the evenings, cleaning all their ‘masterpieces’ while she goes to Rutgers, where my clever girl got a scholarship to study for a BA in Fine Arts with a minor in art history.
Fortunately, her weekend job at the front desk of the same museum gives her enough time to read all her stuffy art history books while she works, killing two birds with one stone.
Our place might not look like much, but Aspen’s made it homely with jewel-colored throws for the sofa bed and her amazing artwork covering the walls. My angel has talent.
I can’t remember ever being happier in my life.
I’m still running errands for anyone and everyone, but I’m finding my feet now.
I got myself a new phone before the Viper inevitably cut off the one he supplied, and for better or worse, I’ve managed to keep the same number.
Had to, really. I needed those contacts, and I needed them to be able to get in touch.
Unfortunately, it means Vito can too - now that he’s worked it out.
This past week, I’ve been fielding threats from various numbers, since I’ve got his blocked. I ignore them, but it doesn’t mean they don’t send a chill down my spine.
It starts with simple photos. Aspen on the college campus.
Aspen painting in one of her classes. Aspen helping a family at the museum.
Locking up after work. Walking home. Catching the train.
Grocery shopping. A different one every few days, but I know exactly when they’re taken from the outfits she’s wearing.
Someone is following her.
This evening she visited her mother, and there’s a picture of her on the subway.
I haven’t blocked the number the photos come from. I can’t. I have to see where this is leading, even though my gut is full of rocks.
Later that night, Aspen comes in all flustered, and my senses scream to full alert. “What’s happened, angel?” I ask, trying not to let her see the full extent of my concern as a visceral fear blooms in my chest.
She rushes into my arms, and I can feel how hard she’s trembling.
“Is your mom alright?” I ask after Helene since that’s where Aspen’s been, even though I’m certain Vito would never dare hurt Don Salvatore’s mistress.
Even though I know I’m trying to find another reason - any other reason - for my wife’s agitation.
“The subway was so packed this evening,” she tells me, her voice high-pitched and breathless. “And I got jostled in the crush...”
She takes a stabilizing breath. “Oh lord! I almost fell into the track. If it wasn’t for the guy next to me, who grabbed my arm, I’d have been electrified or squished.”
Aspen shudders, and I pull her tight into my arms, feeling her terror in my own heart. We stay that way for a long time. Both of us living our own private nightmare.
My phone beeps, and I thumb over the message as I continue to hold her, reluctant to let her go.
Well, well, well. I see you’ve gotten yourself a pretty little wife, despite that I forbade that particular association. What’s her life worth, I wonder?
Then there’s nothing for over a week. The silence has me almost as antsy as the photos did.
I’m not foolish enough to think Vito has simply stopped.
Oh no, the Viper is like a mean, mangy cat.
He likes to toy with his prey, so to speak.
And now I’m on tenterhooks with no other option than to wait for whatever happens next.
And it will happen. Of that I’m sure.
A few days later, Aspen comes home in tears and ice forms in my veins.
I scoop her up and sit her on my lap on the couch while I thumb the wetness from her cheeks and try to keep my heart from breaking as I see the devastation in her eyes.
“What’s upset you, mia bell'angioletta?” I ask, as I mentally steel myself.
“I-I-I got m-m-mugged,” she hiccups, the words barely intelligible through her sobs.
Fury consumes me, and I try to force it down as I do my best to comfort her. Stroking her back and running my fingers through her hair. “What happened?” I ask as gently as I can manage.
Fortunately, she’s so upset she doesn’t notice the latent rage that tenses my muscles and strains my voice.
“I w-was locking up the museum. The s-streetlight in the rear passage was out.” She heaves a breath, “And the next thing I know, s-someone races past me and snatches my b-bag.” She sniffles and swipes at her tears, but at least she appears calmer now.
“It wasn’t even anything important. Just a library book and my lunchbox. But I feel so violated!”
“It’s okay. You’re safe,” I reassure her, even though I’m not convinced it’s true. And I feel so fucking impotent.
My phone beeps with a message, and I hardly dare look.
Next time, I’ll take more than her bag.
Next time, I know it’s game over, so I quietly arrange to use the only leverage I have, but it takes time to execute these things without implicating myself. I always knew that would be the case, but I’d stupidly banked on the threat being enough.
Even so, the next few weeks are quiet and uneventful, so much so that I might believe Vito had backed off if I didn’t know him so well.
What the fuck is that bastard up to?
The answer comes after an excruciating, tormenting month during which I’ve become more and more short-tempered with every perceived and imagined threat. But I know it’s checkmate when the police knock on my door.
“Kaiden Brooks?” The officer asks. I feel the blood rushing from my face like it’s an immediate, physical outpouring as I nod, mutely.
“Aspen…” I choke out, my voice completely strangled.
“I regret to inform you, your wife’s been in an accident.” The words sound like they’re coming from far away, tinny against the rushing in my ears. I clutch the doorframe to keep myself upright and suck in great gulps of air.
“Is she… Is she…” The words won’t come. If she’s dead, I will murder the Viper with my own bare hands. I don’t care if they lock me up forever. Life is not worth living without my angel, and if she’s been hurt because of me…
“She’s at St. Michael’s Medical Centre,” he tells me. “She’s had a very lucky escape.”
Relief wars with wrath and guilt, each of them vying for control, and I am barely hanging on. “What happened?” I demand, trying to get a grip on my emotions and mostly failing.
“There was a hit and run,” the second officer explains. “But rest assured, your wife is getting the best care.”
The rest of the details blur as they are recounted, as my mind whirls with the dreadful truth. Aspen is in danger because of me, and despite my threats, the Viper will never give up.
What do you want?
I respond to the text string for the first time since this all started, and the reply is immediate.
Ditch the girl and get back here, and I’ll let her live her life without any danger from me.
All the air is sucked out of my lungs. Breathing becomes painful, and black spots start to dance before my eyes.
And since you’ve shown your hand, you can be sure that if you try to enact your little ‘exit strategy’, I’ll make certain I’m out of here before the feds arrive. Maybe I’ll kill her first, or maybe I’ll even take her with me. Either way, she’ll be gone.
I double over, the pain of being damned, whatever I decide to do, crippling in its intensity. Worst of all, I know I don’t have a choice.
I’d rather live in a world where I know Aspen is safe, even if it’s without me, than risk whatever dreadful things the Viper might do to her. And in this world, believe me, there are worse things than death.