The Woman in the Trunk

"Not too busy for this," I told him, reminding myself not to grit my teeth. "Why did you screw with the supply order? We needed everything I ordered."

"Berries are expensive. We need to cut back."

"Berries are necessary," I insisted, closing my eyes, willing myself not to cry out of sheer frustration. "We have that order for the wedding this week, Daddy. Remember? They ordered strawberries and blueberries and freaking goji berries. We have to have them."

"Yeah, well," he said, trying to buy time, knowing he was wrong, but not wanting to admit it. "I will send someone out to the store."

"It will cost twice as much at the store! That's why we order wholesale. Jesus Christ. This is not rocket science, Daddy. You need to stop screwing around with the orders. I know what I am doing." I had, after all, been doing it since I was sixteen years old, since he proved wholly incapable of doing it himself.

"Yeah? If you know what you're doing, why are we just barely scraping by every month?"

His voice was raised, that notorious temper rearing its ugly head.

He had the worst combination of traits. Complete ineptitude blended with too much pride to ever admit he didn't know what he was doing. And then a sprinkling of denial, a heaping tablespoon of anger, and a nice dollop of entitlement to top it all off.

If it weren't for my grandfather and his legacy, I would have walked away as soon as I was legally able to do so. But I had made my grandpa a promise on his death bed. I would take care of the bakery. I would make sure it continued on. It would be around for my children, my children's children.

Nerves frazzled, I was beyond taking a deep breath and letting his accusations go. The whiskey and the sleepless nights were wearing me too thin.

"I think we both know why we are just barely scraping by every month, Daddy. And it has nothing to do with how successful the bakery is, and everything to do with those friends of yours in the mafia."

"Watch your mouth, Giana," my father snapped, voice rough.

Just this once, I didn't. I didn't want to. I wanted to unload all the rage, all the frustration, all the utter helplessness I had been feeling for years for him, on him. Where it belonged. I'd been carrying the burden of his shitty decisions around for too long.

"Why should I? You know I'm right. You took a shitty deal with shady people, and then continued to let them walk all over you for decades, dragging our family further and further into debt because you didn't have the balls to stand up to them, because you were too enamored with them to even want to? Newsflash, Daddy, they don't want you in their organization. They think you are a pawn to be used, nothing else. You are embarrassing yourself by kissing their rings like you have been doing all this time."

"You know what, Gigi? Fuck you," he snapped, hanging up.

Tossing my phone onto the table, I stood there in the middle of the kitchen with shaking hands, anger an uncomfortable, bubbling sensation inside, something that couldn't be denied, something I had no outlet for.

So I gave up on dinner, reaching instead for the bottle of whiskey.

If nothing else, it would ensure I would finally get a full night of sleep for a change.

Or so I thought.

I was down the hall, curled up in the king-sized bed in the master bedroom I never got to stay in before, finding the mattress lumpy and hell on my hips and shoulders when I tried to sleep on my side, so I ended up halfway on my stomach, my leg cocked up, face buried in a pillow. My body was damp with sweat since I refused to put the air cold enough to actually cool me off, seeing as it simply cost too much to do so, and no one was typically around to have it matter anyway.

Sleep was restless, marred by dreams that had been plaguing me since I was fifteen—not dreams at all, but awful memories, ones that made me wake up gasping, panicked, unsure of my surroundings for a moment before falling back to sleep.

It was the fourth time I woke up that I realized it wasn't a bad dream that woke me.

Oh, no.

It was the harsh reality.

Where I was alone in a house.

And a man was looming in the shadows.

My heart flew upward, lodging in my throat as a choked gasp escaped me. Why I didn't scream was beyond me. Maybe because of that pesky heart-in-throat situation. I felt it bubble up but get trapped, letting only a whimpering animal sound escape me as I flew upward in the bed, whacking my head against the wooden headboard. I tried to shake off the traces of sleep, think straight enough to figure out how I could get away, what weapons might be nearby to use against him.