Page 29 of Raphael (Belles & Mobsters 5)

Gabriel was already sound asleep. It had been a long day, exhaustion heavy in my bones, but it was impossible to get rid of the anxiousness inside me. I kept pacing back and forth, the quiet of the cabin almost overwhelming.

The sound of crickets grated on my nerves. The owl hooting made me want to throw something through the air. It wasn’t rational. It was fear.

I fucked up. The article I published should have afforded protection. The evidence I provided should have been convincing enough to lock up Santiago Tijuana for life. Then the plan was to negotiate with him - to get evidence against my father.

Instead, I fucked up all the way around. Now, I found myself on the run. Gabriel’s safety was on the line, and it was all my fault.

The panic slithered through every cell of me. I had to check on him. Make sure that he was okay. I rushed through the cabin and silently opened the door to the room where he slept.

I peeked my head in to find him fast asleep. He slept with his arms and legs sprawled, a small smile on his face. My happy boy. I’d keep that smile on his face. No matter what it cost me.

For Anya.

She had protected me, sacrificed her happiness for mine. Father raped her. So many times. Instead of protecting her, he hurt her. I was terrified of the dark, always padding across the hallway barefoot in search of her because being with her offered comfort. It gave me peace. To hear her breathe, to see her sleep.

Except when the monster came. It was the only reason she frowned when I begged her to sleep in her room.

“Wake up, Sailor.” My sister’s voice held urgency. I loved hearing her voice. It was soft and when she sang me lullabies it made me feel all warm inside. But when she was sad, her throat hurt too much. It would squeeze too tight, she said. So I’d sing to her the songs I learned in Kindergarten. I wanted to make her feel better.

Because I loved her. She never yelled and screamed at me. And she never hit. Mother and Father did. They made us cry; Anya more than me.

“Sailor, wake up.” The cold air filled the room and my eyes fluttered open. I blinked my eyes, again and again, confused. “You have to hide.”

Fear shot through me and my heart sped up, thundering against my small chest.

The rhythmic slap of shoes across the marble floor echoed through the hallway.

“I’m scared, Anya,” I whimpered in a small voice

The sound was getting closer and closer. “Under the bed. Now!” She shoved me under it. “Not a sound, Sailor. No matter what, you stay quiet. Okay?”

My eyes burned, tears streamed down my face and my nose started running. I wiped it with the back of my hand. “I love you, Sail,” she whispered.

“I love you too, Anya.”

The door creaked and in a swift move, she pulled a blanket down the side of the bed, leaving me in the darkness. Fear was a peculiar thing. It swallowed you, like a black hole, dragging you deeper into the pits of hell.

“There is my whore.” I didn’t know what the word meant, but I didn’t like it. “Do you know how to say whore in Spanish?”

Father’s voice was cruel and cold, like frostbite against your skin. Anya must have not answered because Father continued speaking.

“Puta, Anya. Remember that.” I didn’t understand the words but my little heart hated him so much. I didn’t like Mother either. I told her Father was making Anya cry. Instead of helping her, Mother slapped me across my face and called me a liar.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered in a harsh tone.

“Please, no.” Anya’s soft voice was barely a whisper. Her words barely settled through the air before a loud smack rang through the silence. My small hand shot to my face, holding it. I still remembered the pain of it when Mother slapped me. My heart cried for Anya and my mouth opened to scream. But then I remembered Anya’s demand. Not a sound.

My free hand covered my mouth.

Squeak. The mattress indented, suffocating me. The space was too small, it was too dark.

“Scream.” I hated his voice. I hatedhim. More than anyone else.

I bit my lip, tasted blood. Anya would usually kiss my boo boo better but my small heart knew her boo boo was bigger.

“Cry for me, my little whore.” The cold, cruel whisper was like an ominous fog surrounding the room, suffocating all the good in this world.

Squeaking from the bed. The covers moved as bodies shifted across the bed and my hiding spot had an opening. Fingers curled over the edge of the bed, gripping it hard. Ugly fingers. Wrinkled fingers. One of those fingers held the ring with the McHale family crest.

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