Page 201 of Morally Gray Daddies

He’ll want something from me eventually, though. Men don’t buy women just to let them live freely in their penthouse and expect nothing in return. I may be naïve, but I’m not completely stupid. There’s always a catch. Which is why I keep my walls high and my mouth closed as much as possible.

By the fourth day she shows up, Helen seems to have decided that’s no longer working for her.

“Come on, honey. I’ve let you sit in silence long enough. It’s time we have some girl time.”

She stands in my doorway and holds up a bottle of alcohol. I look up from the book I’m reading to study her. Has she been drinking already?

“Come on. I can tell you want to. Let’s go. To the living room where we can gossip like teenage girls and drink Patrick’s whiskey.”

When she snaps her fingers, I get moving, not wanting to upset her. She follows me out and plops on the sofa. There are already two glasses on the coffee table, one of which already has some of the gold liquid in it.

“Do you like whiskey, Ana?” she asks as she starts pouring us both a hefty amount.

“I’ve never had it.” I’ve never had any kind of liquor.

She hands me one of the drinks, then picks up her own and holds it in the air. “Then we must change that, sweet girl. To a new life, yeah?”

I stare at her, unsure of what she means. Why is she holding her glass up so high?

“You’re supposed to clink your glass with mine, dear. It’s called a toast. It’s like a prayer, but with alcohol.”

That doesn’t sound quite right, but who am I to argue? So I raise my drink to hers and smile as we tap them together.

“Now, we drink.” She takes a huge swig, then stares at me expectantly.

Bringing mine to my nose, I sniff it and wince. I’m not sure about this. My throat burns just smelling it.

“Drink,” she encourages.

Does she have an accent? Maybe it only comes out when she’s drinking. I haven’t noticed it before. One thing I know for sure: I’m not about to defy the woman.

I take a sip and gasp, then take another sip. Okay, it’s not horrible. The warming sensation is nice.

“You’re going to have to get used to drinking whiskey if you’re going to be with a man in the mafia, dear.”

Liquid spews from my lips, covering the coffee table in a mist of alcohol. Helen giggles and rolls her eyes.

“Don’t tell me you thought he was from the men’s church choir.” She smirks at me, and I try to process this information.

“He’s… he’s in the mafia?”

Panic has me lifting the glass to my lips again for a bigger drink. The mafia is bad. They kill people.

Patrick did have a gun, and so did the men he was with. My father and his men have guns, too, though they aren’t in the mob.

“Breathe, Ana. I know it’s a lot, but Patrick is a good man. He would never hurt you.”

I take several breaths and a couple more swigs, the burning sensation in my throat not as noticeable now. “He’s really in the mafia?”

She nods. “Yes. My husband was too. He died about ten years ago.”

My heart squeezes, and suddenly, I just want to hug and comfort her, but she must realize that because she quickly waves me off.

“That was a lifetime ago, dear. Besides, this is about you.”

“Me?” I down the rest of the drink, and Helen’s eyes go wide.

“Maybe let’s hold off on your second glass for a bit.”

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