Page 1 of Corrupted Queen

1

Alexis

I turn up the volume of the TV, saturating the room with Andy the Automobile Outlaw’s friendly Southern twang. I can still hear the shouting through the wall, which means my son Harry can still hear it too.

His face scrunches, hands drawing into little fists where he sits on a blanket in front of the TV. He is about two seconds from a full-on meltdown. My head is already hurting from the couple next door’s argument. The last thing I need to add to the mix is a screaming baby.

“Shh …” I pick Harry up, bouncing him in my arms as I pace the shoebox-sized room, while Andy promises no money down and low interest rates, even for folks with credit that’s badder than Billy the Kid.

I have become somewhat of a connoisseur of fleabag motels over the past month, and this one just doesn’t cut the mustard. The room is cramped, and the gauzy curtains do a poor job of blocking out the sunlight and the curious gazes of the other residents as they walk past. It smells like a pair of socks that have been worn for several days while hiking through the Amazon, then discarded and left to molder somewhere in one of the room’s many broken drawers.

Harry and I are moving on tomorrow. We’re catching the noon bus to Philadelphia, where hopefully I will be able to source slightly cheerier accommodation.

Harry hiccups and gurgles in my arms, burying his face in my shoulder.

“I know, little guy,” I soothe. “It’s okay.”

Something bangs against the wall, and I jump. The shouting grows louder.

I have half a mind to go over there and tell the pair to cut it out, but I have a strict no-drama policy these days. I keep to myself, quietly going through the motions of life while sinking into the background to avoid scrutiny. I have done this for the past month and so far, so good. I withdrew all my savings in cash, got a new phone, and have been using the name Paula Endsworth everywhere I go.

Only problem? I don’t know where it ends. I have been circling New York aimlessly like a leaf around a whirlpool for the past month—a few days in Hartford, and from there to Poughkeepsie, then Allentown. I don’t know what I am waiting for. I know that Gabriel, Harry’s dad and my former lover, is still looking for me. He hasn’t stopped since the moment I ran out of the hospital a month ago. I can’t go back home.

Why bother sticking around, then? I have family in Kansas who I haven’t seen in years but who would take me in a heartbeat. Harry would love all the chickens and pigs on their farm, and I could try to get a job for the local paper, where the only stories are puff pieces about prize-winning yams. I could change my name to Paula for good and disappear off the face of the earth, and Harry and I could live peaceful lives where the only violence is due to the occasional tornado.

But I don’t want to go to Kansas. My life is in New York. My passion for journalism will not be sated by articles on crop yields. The answer to my conundrum is out there, I just haven’t found it yet.

Part of me wonders if I’m still hanging onto my old life because I am torn by my feelings for Gabriel.

The thought of Gabriel Belluci, the don of the Belluci crime family, six feet and five inches of pure sex, makes my tummy flutter.

It seemed like a cruel twist of fate when I was thrown back into his path two years after a hot one-night stand that resulted in the cranky bundle of joy in my arms. But, after being kidnapped by Andrew Walsh, Gabriel’s rival from the Irish mob, I found out that my boss, Debbie Harris, had deliberately set me in Gabriel’s path at Andrew’s command. I was just a pawn in their bloody game of chess, and when Walsh discovered Harry’s parentage, I became the most valuable piece on the board.

And at the hospital, when I discovered that Gabriel killed my father two years ago, I decided to remove myself from the board entirely.

Harry begins to settle down. His body relaxes and I set him on the bed, covering him in a blanket. His breaths deepen. I turn down the volume of the TV and am pleased to hear nothing from my wayward neighbors. I sigh, welcoming the brief moment of peace.

Which is, of course, exactly when my cell phone decides to ring.

My phone blares to life on the bedside table and I leap for it, smothering the ringing with my hand and darting into the bathroom before the noise wakes Harry. I wonder if it is Debbie returning my calls, though it’s doubtful. I have left her what feels like a million voice mails with no response.

I should hate my boss for putting me in this situation, but after witnessing Andrew Walsh’s brand of cruelty first-hand, I don’t blame her for ceding to his demands. Now that he’s dead, she’s free, and I feel a sort of kinship toward her because of our mob connection. She’s the one person I could talk to about all this.

Plus, I’m going absolutely stir-crazy. I’m hoping she will have some work for me.

I check the screen and my heart skips.

“Clara,” I answer quietly. “I’ve been so worried about you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine, babe.” Her voice is milkshake-thick. “Jus’ been on vacation.”

My forehead wrinkles with worry. Clara Fitzgerald is my best friend. She’s a bright-eyed yoga instructor with a cheeky smile and a penchant for mischief. She’s also a recovering alcoholic, and the fact that she’s broadcast nothing but radio silence for weeks, and now her voice is slurred, worries me.

“Where did you go?” I ask.

“I miss you,” Clara says, dodging the question. “Hey, you should come over. I got your texts and I wann’ help.”

I lean against the wall and survey the muggy, gray bathroom. I think of Clara’s place, with its jungle of potted plants and eternally burning incense, and I’m tempted.

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