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I grasp her chin and turn it so she has to give me her pretty eyes. “Cupcake, I’m talking to you.”
Chapter Two
Patty
It’s my birthday, my eighteenth, and I wake up with a sense of relief that’s unexplainable. There’s a chance I’ll be free.
Today, I can flee and no one can come after me. The police don’t have legal authority to bring me back, either. Well, some of the cops don’t care about legalities when they work for my father. Still, once I get out of the state, it won’t matter. Other cops, maybe even the Feds, will care about protecting the innocent from the mob.
Knock, knock, knock.
The daily rapping on my door grates my nerves because even today, I don’t get to sleep in. It’s not as if I do anything all day, so I’m not sure why I can’t sleep in.
Still, I answer before the pounding begins. “I’m up,” I call out. Sometimes I wonder if it’s more of a bed check, like a prison rather than a wake-up call. I toss back my comforter and slip out of my bed, stretching before doing my Pilates. It’s only a fifteen-minute workout, but it’s a part of my morning routine and something my parents don’t complain about because it keeps me fit and looking like a proper young lady.
It’s strange how they care about my health and appearance, considering I rarely see other adults and I’m not allowed to leave the house. I’ve been home-schooled since I was thirteen.
I asked them about it once and my mother said, “We can’t find you a husband one day if you’re a cow.” I shook my head and laughed, which earned me a slap.
The door bursts open. “What the hell?”
“You don’t have time to work out. Manuel will be busy today, so you need to be downstairs early if you want to bake,” my father says, holding on to the door handle and leaning in.
“Oh, okay.” He closes the door without a “Happy Birthday” because my parents haven’t celebrated my birthday since I was a kid. Today wouldn’t be any different. Life for them is just too important, and I’m not special enough. My brothers are their priority, and I’m their disappointment. I put away my mat and run into the shower.
At least today I get to bake my own birthday cake with my favorite person in the entire house—Manuel, our chef. He and I have been cooking and baking together since I was a kid. It’s the highlight of my day and the only reason I haven’t run away yet. Okay—there are more reasons, like my father’s a fucking psycho murderer and has men everywhere, and the other big issue: I don’t have anywhere to go. Still, I like to believe that Manuel is a big reason I stay.
I dress quickly, sliding on a cute pink dress, and then throw my hair up in a bun, putting pins in so my long black hair doesn’t fall loose. Then I’m out of my room, only to nearly collide with a very large man. He looks handsome and extremely dangerous. I’m a little scared of him and scoot around his large frame. “Sorry,” I mutter, but I don’t actually glance at him as I say it. My father must have gotten another guard in the house because we don’t have any guests staying with us.
Instead, I move quickly down the stairs until my mother scolds me. “Walk, young lady. We didn’t raise a heathen.”
“No, just thugs,” I mutter under my breath. The man behind me chuckles, but I just keep moving because I’m not allowed to speak to my father’s associates, and they’re not to interact with me unless necessary.
“Don’t mutter under your breath. Manuel is waiting for you, so get started, young lady.”
“Yes, Mother Dearest.” I smile sweetly, skipping into the kitchen, letting her think that’s an endearment. My mother has never seen that movie or learned the meaning of the phrase. If she did, I’d probably be in trouble.
Bursting through the kitchen door, I greet my favorite person with a cheerful, “Good morning.”
“Feliz cumpleaños, Muñeca.” Manuel pulls me into his arms for a big hug after wishing me a happy birthday. He’s been calling me a doll since I was little.
“Thank you, Manuel,” I say, giggling as we break apart.
“You seem so happy today. Have you spoken to your parents yet?” His brow lifts with a bit of curiosity.
“Not more than a sentence or two each, so it’s a good morning. Shall we bake before they demand that I be weighed?” I roll my eyes, and so does he.
He nods. “Yes, we better get on with it.”
We begin measuring ingredients in a massive mixing bowl because I love making cakes from scratch. I pull out the vanilla and add it to the sugary mix we’ve already started to blend when my mother enters the kitchen.
“Ah, there you are, baking your wedding cake,” she says with a sinister smile.
I swear I heard her wrong because she couldn’t have said what I think she said. “Wedding cake?”
“Oh, you didn’t tell her?” She stares behind me. I turn, and my heart breaks.
“I didn’t…” Manuel’s eyes are filled with guilt, but there are no words.
