Page 4 of Starting Over

For all their faults, they were a family, and the family took care of its own.

Until it didn’t.

I married at eighteen, and my marriage lasted twenty-nine years. I took care of the house and raised my daughter. Duane took care of everything else. The bills, the repairs, the safety of me and my daughter. I never wanted for anything.

Physically, I still didn’t. Duane was good with our money. And of course, being in the Mob hadn’t hurt us financially. That was how I was able to buy my way out.

That was the catch.

With Duane gone, I could purchase my freedom.

He did that for me.

There were rules in the Mob. Once you were a made man, the only way out was death. But for the women. They could buy their freedom.

And that was exactly what I did.

Duane knew his days were numbered. Not many soldiers made it to old age. They were expendable.

Sure, Sal did what he could to take care of everyone. Family first and all that jazz, but Duane hadn’t been high enough onthe list to be protected at all costs. He wasn’t a captain like my father, and because of the reality of the hierarchy, Duane had made the necessary arrangements. He socked away money when he could. He knew how much I would need to buy my life, because it had never been mine to begin with.

With Duane’s death looming over his head, he gave me the opportunity to get out.

Throughout our marriage, we talked about what we would do if things were different. Duane was a realist, but me.

I was a dreamer.

I lived vicariously through books, always wondering what it would be like to have a little cottage in a small town. A few chickens in the backyard to get fresh eggs daily. A dog that was so loyal no one could get near me without the threat of him ripping the throat out of someone who dared to cause me pain, or even fear.

Never again would I live in fear.

As soon as I got settled, a dog was the first thing on my list. A big dog. A scary looking dog that was a marshmallow with me.

Duane did his best. He protected me as much as he could. It hadn’t been enough. I didn’t blame him, though. How could I? What happened to me hurt us both. Duane lived with the guilt of what I endured.

That was the past. With a new resolve, I looked back down at the engine and glared at Betty. Willing her to tell me how to fix her so we could get to our destination.

I was concentrating so hard that I almost didn’t hear the noise. A rumble that started as a faint hum. I looked around the hood of my car and noticed a single glow of what appeared to be a headlight.

Walking back to my car, I grabbed my purse and the Smith & Wesson 642LS Ladysmith Double-Action Revolver that was hidden within it. Duane had bought it for me after I wasattacked. He spent months teaching me how to clean it, load it, and most importantly, how to shoot it.

I was a good shot.

Duane had made sure of it.

He made sure I would never be at the mercy of another man with a vendetta. A dirty cop that thought he wasn’t getting what he deserved. Who felt he was entitled to more. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been any of the wives.

Well, it would never be me again.

Pulling the gun from my purse, I held it at my side, slightly behind my leg. Being as dark as it was, whoever headed my way wouldn’t see it until it was too late.

The motorcycle pulled up behind my car, and the man that sat astride, pulled his helmet off. Hanging it on the handlebar, he tossed his leg over the back and stood.

“Hey, darlin’. You got car trouble?” he asked.

His voice had a southern twang as he swaggered toward me. His hips moved smoothly, and he ignored my stare as he looked down and tugged the gloves from his hands.

I stood on the passenger side of my broken-down car, choosing not to be against the road, despite the lack of cars that had never driven past while I’d been stranded out here.

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