Bratva Sinner (A Possessive Mafia Romance)

I stared at him, heart thudding a fast patter against my ribs like raindrops on a fast-moving car. “It’s just, if we go back there, I’ll remember his body in that alley.”

“Think about what he did to you.” He spoke quietly but intently, his jaw tight like he was angry as hell. It caught me off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“He knew what he had,” Luke said. “Think back to when you talked to him. How was he acting?”

“Afraid,” I admitted.

“I bet he was fucking terrified. He knew what he had and he knew what that dossier meant. And worst of all, he knew how much trouble you’d be in if he gave it to you. Think about that for a second, Cara. Your father couldn’t handle holding on to it because he was afraid for his life, so he decided to pass it off to his daughter.”

I blinked slowly and feel a cold pooling in my gut.

He was right. It was horrible, but he was right, and I hadn’t noticed until right now. I accepted that my father wanted to hand that dossier over to me, but I didn’t stop to ask myself why.

Maybe I didn’t want to know.

“He could’ve thought they wouldn’t come after me.” The excuse sounded weak, even to my own ears.

Luke only grunted. “Yeah, maybe, or maybe he knew you’d hide it, or maybe he didn’t give a shit who took it so long as he wasn’t on the hook anymore. There are a lot of reasons why your dad would give that folder to you, but not many of them are good.”

I leaned forward and buried my face in my hands. I dug my fingernails into my skin and tried not to let the tears roll down my cheeks because that old bastard didn’t deserve my anger or my sorrow. He didn’t deserve to make me feel anything anymore, because he was dead, dead and in the ground where he belonged.

Luke stood and crouched next to me. He put an arm across my shoulders and tugged me against his chest. I bit back the tears harder and took deep, gulping breaths to keep myself under control, but I felt it slipping away.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I know this isn’t easy. Family’s never easy, but your old man, he didn’t do you any favors. You don’t owe him anything anymore. He’s gone.”

I pulled away and stared at him. “Gone because of you. I haven’t forgotten that.”

He smirked, head tilted. “If you’re looking for an apology, you won’t get one. Your father deserved what he got and probably should’ve gotten worse. He treated you like garbage then left you for dead as his final act. All he wanted in the world was to drag you down with him. Let it go, Cara.”

I pushed my chair back and stood. I walked away, tears rolling down my cheeks and hating myself for it—I shouldn’t cry, shouldn’t mourn my dead dad. I should’ve let all the days and weeks and months of torture he put me through harden my skin and toughen my hands, all those nights he came home wasted and tried to steal from me, the close calls and the near misses, the stress and worry when winter rolled around and he was still out on the streets, with me wondering if he’d freeze to death in a puddle of his own vomit, but it was all over now, it was all gone.

All because Luke put a bullet in his head.

“I’m not going to thank you,” I said, staring at the floor and getting myself together. “But let’s go get that dossier while we can. Maybe it’ll do some good now that my father isn’t around to mess everything up.” I turned back to face him.

He straightened and nodded once. “All right then. Let’s go bring it home.” He walked into the living room and I followed.

The Daly Drinker looked even smaller than I remembered. I’d been there only days earlier with my dad, but in my memory, it was somehow more spacious, like all the emotions I kept locked up inside filled the space in my mind, fleshing it out and making it larger.

In truth, the place was a dump. Peeling wood paneling, ugly Christmas lights, beer stains on the floor. It was the sort of place my father frequented, where the drinks were dirt-cheap and the clientele didn’t bother lifting their heads up from whatever bottle they were falling into. He liked being just another anonymous drunk in one of a hundred crumbling dives scattered all over Philly.

Now he was just another anonymous corpse buried in a public lot.

Three people sat at the bar. It was still early and the place must’ve just opened, but all three had nearly empty beers dripping condensation. The bartender nodded and I nodded back, and I wondered if he remembered me from that night—probably not. Just another drunk and his little girl.