Page 93 of Dirty Mafia Torment

I don’t have the answers. And I hate feeling so helpless.

I shouldn’t feel like I’m the one bleeding every time his body convulses.

All I can do is watch the drugs tear him apart, and pray he makes it through.

Yesterday, though, was progress. He was awake, coherent.

The angry part of me wants to unchain him, pat his back with “good luck,” and just shove him out the barn door. And truth is, as ridiculous as it is, the more self-vindictive, self-destructive part aches to keep him chained to me forever.

“Are you cleaning out the barn?” Aunt Teresa asks as I scrub the varnish off the dinner plate I’ve been washing for several minutes. It’s our day off. She spent hers in the garden, and I spent mine spiraling, worried she’d cross the yard, enter the barn, and discover I’ve a man chained to the slats.

“Why do you ask?” I manage, keeping my tone neutral.

“I haven’t set foot in there since I stopped boarding horses. But there’s a trail of straw in the driveway.”

I force a laugh. “It keeps my feathered friend from getting too brave. He’s scared of the stuff.”

With good reason—having a large square projectile nearly flatten your feathered ass will do that.

She steps beside me, drying dishes with a clean cloth. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

My stomach drops. “Okay…”

“I still keep a small apartment above the restaurant.”

She’s mentioned it before, usually as a complaint about how cluttered the space has become. A storage area that shouldn’t be.

“This time of year, when business picks up, I usually stay in the city. No commute means more time to experiment with new recipes. I’d like to add a few summer specials to the menu. But if you’d rather not be alone out here…”

“I can manage,” I interrupt, grateful for the sudden luck. Keeping my secret just got easier. “Besides, who’ll take care of your garden if not me?”

She studies me, then smiles.

“It’s settled,” I quickly say. “I’ll stay and keep the farm running while you’re away.”

She pulls me into a hug. “Thank you, Fina. You’ve been such a help.”

“Thank you, Aunt Teresa.” My voice wavers. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

This woman, practically a stranger, took me in when I had nothing left. When I was at my weakest, and she helped me.

This same reason’s why I won’t turn my back on the man in the barn.

Even if the truth is more complicated than I’m ready to face.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

FINA

Later that evening,after my prozia turns in for the night, I slip out the back door with a plate of leftovers and a pulse that’s already misbehaving.

Even in the dark, Ifeelhim. That stare—hot, steady, impossible to ignore.

“I thought you forgot about me,” he drawls.

As if. As if I could erase him like a scuff mark on a shoe.

“My aunt was home all day,” I say, walking closer and setting the plate down on a stool. “Hold on. There’s an old lantern here somewhere.”