Page 6 of Mafia And Maid

A crack reverberates through my entire body. And the pain splinters me in half.

I curl over Ethan, shielding him as a polished loafer kicks out and beats the oxygen out of my lungs.

His fingers rip through my scalp as he drags me up by my hair.

I don’t struggle. I don’t fight.

I simply focus on my son cowering in a ball with tears streaming down his face.

Out. We need out.

My body is flung into the side table, toppling a vase which shatters to the ground. But I make myself grab at Grayden’s trouser leg. Anything to stop him from getting closer to Ethan.

Each breath feels like I’ve swallowed glass. But I shove myself up, trying to find the strength to move.

Grayden shakes me from his leg and staggers toward his study—no doubt to get more alcohol. I hold my breath as I watch, hoping that his need to drink will eclipse his need to beat me.

I count to ten before I crawl to Ethan. Soothing back his hair and kissing his temple, I want to tell him that it’s over, that it won’t happen again. But I won’t lie to him.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I gather my baby boy into my arms. His body shakes against mine, and I squeeze him all the tighter.

The pain in my ribs makes me gasp, but I bite my cheek. Softly, slowly, I make it down the hall. Every creak and groan of the house has me on edge.

My breath stutters out of me in pained puffs as we silently climb the stairs. I stop outside Ethan’s room, ushering him inside quickly.

Then I sit in a guest room, hunched over on the edge of the bed, waiting for the drunken summons into our bedroom…

I wait for the cursed bellowing that he does when he’s like this—demanding and insistent that I pleasure him exactly how he commands me to.

He tells me that I’m a hole for him to fill as he pleases, but he also tells me that I’m useless in bed. His constant reminders of this only add to the darkness that swallows me up when I’m alone.

The slamming of a door inside our bedroom makes me jump. I try to listen to the sounds through the wall.

One heartbeat, then another.

I creep out of the guest room and move to the master bedroom’s door, cracking it open just a peep.

Relief floods through my body as I sag against the doorframe.

Asleep. The bastard is asleep.

Clumsily, his body lays across the bed. With another sharp inhale, I quietly pad over to him, pulling the loafers from his feet. He’ll expect them cleaned and polished to perfection before the morning.

He’ll also be furious if he wakes up to find that he’s slept in his clothes, leaving the expensive fabric creased and rumpled.

I pull off his slacks and then unbutton his dress shirt before I struggle to get it off him. Thank God he’s passed out—anything’s preferable to when he’s yelling and beating me.

I gather his clothes into a ball to place in the laundry basket. And before I leave him, I fill a glass of water and place it beside him on the nightstand—if he wakes up without water beside him, it’ll be yet another reason for him to come for me.

With a soft click of the door, I make my way back downstairs to clean up the shattered vase and mess he’s made in his fit.

Each step feels like someone’s pressing an iron to my lungs. I try to draw a breath in but can’t seem to do it enough.

The pattern of this isn’t new to me. We’ve been through this far too many times.

But tonight is the first time he’s gone for Ethan—gone for the little boy who’s his son.

In a daze, I move from the kitchen to the living room. The sound of my cleaning and glass clinking into the trash doesn’t quite register as I continue to replay the image of Ethan on the floor, hands thrown over his head. And the smell of the furniture polish does nothing to remove the foul smell of Grayden’s alcohol-laced breath as he sneers in my face.

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