Page 34 of Dangerous Devotion

“Get some sleep,” he says. I guess that’s his way of saying he cares, so I tell him I will.

I go to my room but I’m reluctant to lie down on the bed because even though I scrubbed up, it still feels like I’m coated in the warm, sticky blood from Jack’s stab wound. The way it felt to have his life slipping out into my hands, that terror and denial as I pressed down on his side as hard as I could, comes back to me now.

I cover my mouth with both hands and go throw up in the trash can. My dad takes forever in the bathroom, there’s no sense waiting for him to be done and going back in there. I go wash out the little trash can in the kitchen and take it back to my room.

Exhausted, I finally peel off my clothes and pull on a big t-shirt, spool up in my comforter and fall asleep. When I wake in the morning, my head pounds with the agony of a swollen-eyed woman who stayed up crying and throwing up most of the night. I stagger into the bathroom and rinse my mouth, gulp water from the faucet, my mouth is so dry. Then I run back to my room and fish my phone out of my pocket.

Nothing. No messages or missed calls, no voicemail from Jack telling me that he misses me, begging me to come back to him. Some weak, craven part of me knows that if he reached out even to ask how I am, I’ll go back to him and say I’m sorry and fall into his arms again. It’s better this way, I tell myself. He’s not going to plead with me or try to change my mind.

He’s Blackjack Marino, head of the Marino crime family and famous for being uncompromising, determined, a force to be reckoned with. That kind of man doesn’t keep coming back after he’s been dumped, and that kind of man isn’t going to look back on me with regret. He’s going to move on faster than I can snap my fingers, because there’s plenty of women who’d be glad to risk a little blood to be with Jack, and I’d be a fool to think otherwise.

I don’t believe he’s sitting around that fabulous penthouse missing me. He’ll be at the office and afterward he’ll go to his club or maybe out with friends. He’ll pick up a girl, or else he’ll let ten or twenty of them approach him one at a time before he takes his pick.

It makes me sick to think about him with someone else, but that’s reality and I’m the one who chose it. If the man I loved can get knifed at a casual meeting because some flunkie got aggressive and Jack got caught in the middle, then anything is possible when it comes to the danger that surrounds him. He’s not sitting behind a bunch of security guards and vetting everyone he speaks to for safety reasons.

He doesn’t live his life in an ivory tower, and even if he did, someone could get to him if they’re determined enough to take him out. Or really, what scares me is they could get to our child. This baby would be a living, breathing source of leverage against him.

Enemies, upstarts who want to overthrow his leadership in the family, crazies who think he crossed them—they’d all target our child. They’d never be safe, never have a chance to play outside with their friends or ride a bike without the constant threat that an enemy will snatch them for ransom or to manipulate their dad. Someone would take them, hurt them, even kill them because of who their dad is.

It's that thought that sends me reeling to the toilet again in time to throw up some more. I can’t do this. I can’t wallow in fear and grief. I broke up with Jack to save our baby. There’s no sense whining about it, I tell myself as I splash water on my clammy, pale face. I’ll make myself a cup of tea and when I’m feeling better in a few minutes, I’ll shower, get dressed, and go look for a new job.

It’s not like I can keep treating foot soldiers for the Marino family in the back of a bar. I need a decent job, some health insurance, a chance to finish my coursework so I can support a child and pay for good day care.

Lightheaded, weak and puffy from all the crying, I drink tea and scroll my phone for job postings, for the class schedules in the LPN program and which ones I could manage to take. It feels like I need to hurry, to complete the program and get my license before the baby is born. That way I have a more secure income.

I have three goals right now: Keep the baby safe. Keep the baby secret. Finish my LPN. There’s no room for anything else. My dad’s debts were cleared at the great cost of the rest of my life—the broken heart I carry around and the grandchild of his I’m carrying and the hazardous future that child would have if their father ever found out about them.

I smirk when I realize I’m drinking tea out of my Goal Getter mug, the one I bought myself when I made an A in my first nursing class several years ago. Instead of the pride I felt when I bought the mug like a trophy for myself, I feel ashamed now. I let all that time pass without finishing my coursework, and I’ve made so many mistakes along the way.

I’m alone, pregnant, broke, and tethered to a gambling addict dad whose house I live in, whose bathroom I share. I’ve done so many things wrong in my life. I want to do the right thing now, keep my baby safe and make a home for us together.

I apply online to work at a convenience store. I can stock sodas and check people out, sell cigarettes and lotto tickets. It’s above minimum wage and I can use the flexible hours to work on my degree. It’s a no brainer, I think, that this would be good job for me right now. It would accommodate my schedule taking a class or two and going to prenatal appointments.

I don’t mind working late nights. I’ll sleep in the mornings, drink plenty of water, take a walk in the sunshine. I type the plan into my reminder scheduling app and then make a list of things I need to do. Get prenatal vitamins. Start a savings plan. Register for a class or two.

I’ll come up with something to tell my dad later. It shouldn’t be too complicated to avoid his questions since he doesn’t ask them.

Spelling out a plan makes me feel better. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

As long as I don’t let myself think about Jack at all.

I just have a sinking feeling that’s easier said than done.

18

JACK

“How you doin’ today?” Ronnie asks me.

He heard what happened from Foz, I guess. Who could resist the gossip that the don of the Marino family got dumped in the back room of a bar by a part-time waitress? The guys are only human after all. I feel my jaw tighten, the tension bristle through me.

“I’m good, Ron. How are you?”

“I’m doin’ fine. Just wanted to check in on you. You did so good by me when I was out with my surgery, and it seems like the thing to do, return the favor.”

“My prostate’s fine,” I quip.

He gives a wheezy chuckle. “I still can’t thank ya enough for watchin’ out for the old place when I was out of commission. If there’s anything I can ever do—have yous around for a barbecue this weekend maybe?” he offers. I’m getting a pity invite from an employee. My pride can barely handle this hit.

---