Page 52 of Sinful Attraction

“Do you believe me?”

He shoots me a troubled look. “Would you believe me straight off if I leveled that kind of accusation at family? Even a brat like her?”

“God.” I rake a hand back through my hair. “I get it. I get it.”

I just hate it. I understand now exactly how Arya must feel: Like the whole world is against her, and she has no one in her corner.

“At least I have her,” I mumble.

“Who?” he asks distractedly.

I shake my head. “Never mind.”

He goes quiet for a few seconds. “Not driving while you’re this drunk?”

“Hell no.”

“Good man. Did you call a cab?”

“Can’t quite manage it yet.” That embarrasses me, but there is not much I can do about it at the moment, between the whiskey and the adrenaline.

“Okay. I’m gonna give you a ride. Where are you headed? The condo?”

I shake my head. “Houseboat.”

“The houseboat it is,” he says indulgently. “Just don’t puke in my car.”

Chapter 22

Arya

I’m now splitting my time between my parents’ place and Michael’s houseboat. I actually spend as little timehomeas I possibly can, and I barely talk to anyone while I’m there.

It hurts, but I have a feeling that whatever they will have to say will hurt worse than us avoiding each other.

I’m officially a pariah now. I’ve tried as hard as I could to make a place for myself in this family outside of goddamned gender roles, and instead, I’ve ended up on the outs with everyone.

It isn’t fucking fair, but that’s life sometimes, I guess.

I still feel like crying by the time I clean up my room, grab a couple of outfits, and pack another box to shove into the back of my walk-in closet.

Have any of them even noticed that I’m on the verge of moving out? Do any of them even care?

Fuck. I need to stop doing this to myself.

I leave without speaking to anyone, feeling like fifteen and plotting to run away again. Back then, one of Dad’s men would always catch me and haul me back home—four times between the ages of twelve and seventeen. This time, I know nobody’s going to go after me.

That’s both freeing and painful. As I drive away, though, the pain fades, and all I think about is the relief of not being there.

But then I remember why, and it hurts all over again.

“Maybe I need a damn therapist,” I say to myself as I pull onto the road. I’ve always held off because how the hell do you talk about the problems of being a mobster’s daughter without your therapist calling the cops?

But maybe if I’m careful, I can talk about their failures as parents and my feelings without bringing up hacking jobs, mob families, and the million dirty secrets that separate people like me from others like a therapist from a normal family.

Maybe it’s time.

Or, maybe it won’t help, and I’ll be stuck carrying this crap for years. No way of knowing. That burden’s in my present and future, whether I like it or not.

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