Page 10 of Mafia Obsession

In the cab, I check inside my purse to see if anything is missing. It would have been rude to do it in front of the man who got it back for me.

Ares…

Likehe’dsteal anything from me. The man screamed wealth. Not from one lousy hundred-dollar bill. His clothes. The way he smelled. His absolute confidence and the way he kept his head held high.

I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help it.

“Did that guy touch you?” David grunts from beside me.

“No,” I spit out. “Someone tried to rob me. He felt bad. It would be really nice if you asked if I was okay for a change.”

David rolls his eyes.

Our marriage has been on the rocks for a few years now. I’m trapped until I save enough money to get my sister out of Chicago. Sandrine is in a long-term care institution, wasting away.

The taxi pulls up in front of our apartment building in Hell’s Kitchen. “Keep the meter running,” David says to the driver, then looks at me. “Get out. I have more work to do.”

Not caring to argue, I pull the handle to leave, but David grabs my arm.

“You better fucking be there when I get home.” His words don’t land as a shock anymore.

I could argue. I could ask what time he plans to come home. How long am I supposed to sit there waiting? They’re all lines I’ve learned not to cross.

I pull my arm free, not enough to provoke him, just enough to remind him I still can.

After getting out, I watch the taxi drive off. Relieved, I stare up into the sky to get centered. No stars in crowded cities. Too many lights. It was the same in Chicago.

When I was twenty, my sister fell down a flight of stairs. She suffered a traumatic brain injury and complete memoryloss. Our mother had already been gone for years, so it was just my father trying to manage the crisis alone. I left college in Florida to help Sandrine’s recovery, but my father put her into a home for disabled adults.

Thenhedied in a car accident.

Dad left a small trust to pay the bills, but that ran out shortly after, and my sister had to be moved to a state-run facility. The people there are kind. It’s clean. But it’s just basic care. She needs rehabilitation and advanced therapy. The kind of medical care I can’t afford right now.

I step into our dingy one-bedroom apartment and kick off these high heels.

David and I only dated for a few months in Chicago and got married because I became unexpectedly pregnant. He moved us to New York, and six months into the pregnancy, I had a very painful miscarriage.

I got a job and stupidly agreed to deposit my whole salary into his bank account. He kept telling me he’d change it to a joint account, but he never did. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I was dealing with depression from the miscarriage.

Now, he’s gone all the time, and when he is home, he’s moody and growing violent.

Thinking of Sandrine, I give her a call. It’s rare that I can talk privately without David hovering.

The ward receptionist answers. “Tenth.”

“Jessica Parker, please?” I ask for her by the name my father changed it to after her horrific accident.

“Who’s calling?”

“It’s Lourdes Sinclair, her sister.”

“Hold.”

She picks up. “Lourdes!”

“Jessica!” I’m always so relieved to hear her voice.

“How was therapy this week?” I ask to give these calls a purpose and to remind her I’m invested in her recovery. Even if I can’t visit her in person.