Page 137 of Married With Malice

I refuse to face a world without him.

And he would refuse to leave me.

Therefore, he isn’t dead.

“What the FUCK does it take?” My father screams amid shattering glass. “They should have been wiped out! And now you’re fucking telling me all we have are some deadcaposand nameless grunts? If Richie dies today then the boy will be the head of the family and none of you useless shits even knows WHERE THE FUCK HE IS!”

The words penetrate my haze of pain and I bolt upright.

He’s talking about Luca. He has to be.

Luca is alive.Whatever my father tried to do, he didn’t succeed.

And I’m damn well not going to just lie here on the bedroom floor and weep while Luca is out there fighting. He’ll be desperate to find me.

My whimper of pain is involuntary as I struggle to sit up. Gingerly, I check my injuries.

This is the first time I’ve ever been punched in the stomach and I do not endorse the experience. The queasiness is a real pain in the ass and I keep dry heaving. Sour bile fills my mouth and I spit it on the floor. I’m afraid to look in case there’s blood but I see none. My left hip feels as bruised and sore as it used to when I’d crash on the ice ten times in a row after trying a new jump.

But the sharp ache under my right eye bothers me the most. The skin just above the cheekbone is puffy and so painful that I recoil when my fingertips explore the area. I think I’ll avoid looking in the mirror for now. I’m sure nothing good can come of that.

For the time being the shouting downstairs has ceased. Now that my father’s plans have gone to hell in a handbasket, maybe he’s forgotten that I’m even here.

I lower my face to the floor until I have a clear view of the strip of light beneath the door. Earlier, the light was mostly obscured by Sonny while he stood guard. His shadow is now gone. Sonny probably went downstairs to comfort my father after he failed to kill my husband.

I’m unsure if the door is locked but even if it is, I’ve picked the lock before and I can do it again.

However, I would really like to be wearing shoes. There’s something particularly shitty about confronting evil while barefoot. If I run into my father again, I’d love to be able to kick him without breaking a toe.

On the floor of my closet there are some old pairs of shoes that I didn’t bother to bring with me when I moved out. Slippers would be the most comfortable but the least effective when it comes to self-defense. The black leather boots could probably inflict some damage but the sound of the high heels clicking on the hard floor will announce my arrival from three rooms away. Not really ideal for a silent escape.

A pair of pink and white running shoes from high school should have been thrown out years ago but now they make a good choice. I slip them on my feet, search around for a weapon, and settle on a rather hefty first place skating trophy.

At least now I can understand why Luca always carries a gun. I sure wouldn’t mind having one handy.

For a full minute, I listen at the door. All I hear are some faint murmurings.

My plan, though weak, is to sneak downstairs and escape through the tunnel. The vast garage where my father keeps all of his prized vintage vehicles is probably not being heavily guarded on a day when everyone around here is preoccupied with declaring war on the Amato family. Once I get there, I’ll figure out what to do next.

In my mind, there’s a pleasant image of crashing through the garage doors behind the wheel of a candy apple red 1969 Ferrari. Perhaps I’ll need to run over some of my father’s mafia thugs as I speed toward freedom and to Luca. The thought makes me smile.

The door isn’t locked after all. Easing it open one inch at a time and praying for well oiled hinges, Sonny’s backside is the first thing I see. He’s standing ten feet away at the railing and peering down into the cavernous foyer below. My father’s voice has grown faint. He’s probably retreated to his office to yell at his underlings.

Though Sonny appears to be intently listening to whatever drama is unfolding in another part of the house, there’s no way I’ll make it down the wide staircase without him noticing.

The trophy is heavy in my hand. I grip it like a baseball bat and inch forward. I’m going to aim for the back of his skull. With any luck, he’ll just drop like a bag of rocks.

Or I might accidentally kill him.

This gives me some pause.

Of all my father’s men, he’s the one I’d least enjoy killing. I’ve met his daughter, a shy grad student who dreams of being a writer and adores her dad.

While I’m standing around having a crisis of conscience, my foot lands on a creaky floorboard. Recognizing my final chance to strike a blow, I still can’t do it. My arms droop, still holding the trophy, and Sonny spins around.

I’d forgotten that I probably look like I just fought a heavyweight boxing match. Sonny has surely witnessed plenty of awful scenes while carrying out my father’s dirty work, yet his face sags with dismay at the sight of my injuries.

Even more than that, he’s pissed. He would never ever beat the crap out of his daughter, lock her up and try to kill her husband.

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