Bloody Heart: A Second Chance Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 4)

Serwa helps me sneak out of the house. It’s not terribly difficult, because we’re not actually in a prison. My main concern is that I don’t want to be followed, because I want to speak to Dante uninterrupted, without my father hearing or calling the police.

Serwa carries a huge load of recycling out to the bins in the backyard, then drops it all over the patio, with a whole lot of shattering glass, bouncing milk jugs, and rolling cans. When the two security guards run over to help her pick it all up, I sneak out the back gate.

I hear that nasty dog growling as I run across the lawn, but the guards have him on a leash so he can’t chase after me. Thank god for that—I’ve never seen a meaner animal.

Dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up, I feel like a criminal. I never go out at night alone. Lincoln Park is a safe neighborhood, relatively speaking, but I’m still in downtown Chicago. I flinch away from anybody walking the opposite direction down the sidewalk. I feel like everybody’s looking at me, even though nobody is.

I walk about six blocks over to the park. I wanted to meet here for symbolic reasons, because Dante and I sat under the wisteria vines and talked and kissed for hours, and it was a beautiful afternoon, one of the best of my life.

The sun was shining then, and the bees were droning, and I had the man I love next to me. Now I’m all alone. It’s chilly and dark. The season has changed—the wisteria has lost its thick green leaves and clusters of purple blooms. It’s just dry brown vines now. The gazebo isn’t a sheltered alcove anymore—it’s exposed to the wind and the eyes of anyone else who might be roaming around the park.

I huddle up in the corner of the gazebo, trying to keep watch in all directions at once.

I should have worn a coat, not a sweater. It’s windier than I thought, and colder.

With each gust of air, the dry branches of the trees scratch together. I hear rustling sounds that might be a squirrel or a cat. I jump every time and stare around in all directions.

It was stupid to come here. I should have had Dante meet me at a cafe—somewhere warm and bright and safe.

I should have brought my phone. I was afraid Tata would notice it missing.

The dark and cold and the fear is preying on my mind. If Dante would have appeared right then, I would have thrown myself into his arms unhesitatingly. I’ve missed him so, so, so badly it felt like an organ torn out of my body. I would have blurted out the news about the pregnancy—it would have been the first words out of my mouth.

But the longer I wait, the more I become confused and upset that he hasn’t come. He promised to meet me at midnight. He said he would be here. I was sure I could count on him—sure he wouldn’t keep me waiting even a moment. It’s past midnight now, past 12:30. What could possibly be keeping him away?

Then I start to wonder if this is how it’s always going to be?

That’s what my father said, and my mother. They told me if I stayed with Dante, I’d have a life of perpetual danger and fear. They said there could be no happy ending with a man like that. That he would bring violence and crime into my life, no matter how hard he tried to hide it away from me.

And now I’m starting to realize that this pregnancy changes everything . . .

If I keep this baby . . . what kind of life will it have?

What kind of father?

I might be willing to risk my own safety to be with Dante . . . but would I risk the safety of my child?

I have visions of criminals breaking into our house in the middle of the night, bent on revenge.

Or what about a police SWAT team? It only takes one stray bullet to snuff out a life . . . especially if that life is particularly small and vulnerable.

My heart is racing, faster and faster.

I need to vomit again. I’m continually sick, dizzy, aching. Shivering with cold.

How could Dante fail me like this? He promised me . . .

Maybe his promises don’t mean much.

We’ve only known each other a few months. I thought we were soulmates. I thought I knew him.

But the man I knew wouldn’t leave me waiting for an hour in a dark park, all alone. Not when I begged him to come.

I should leave. What if someone mugs me? I don’t just have myself to think about anymore. I haven’t decided whether to keep this baby or not, not entirely, but right now it seems like the most important thing in the world. Like I walked into this deserted place carrying something unbearably precious and fragile.

I’m just at the point of fleeing from the gazebo when I hear a sound—much louder than any cat or squirrel. Crashing through the bushes, headed right for me.

My body stiffens like petrified wood, and I clutch my hands over my mouth, trying not to scream.

A hulking figure leaps into the gazebo—soot-blackened and covered in blood. Wild eyes stare out of his face, eyes and teeth horribly white against his filthy skin.

I scream, so loud that it tears my throat.

“Simone!” he cries, reaching for me with his massive hands.

I understand that it’s Dante, but I back away from him, still shrieking.

His hands are covered in blood, every inch of them. His knuckles are swollen, cut, bleeding, and the whole of his hands are drenched—not from those cuts, but from something else. From someone else.

“Don’t touch me!” I scream, staring at those awful hands.

Those are the hands of a criminal. A killer.

“I’m so sorry . . .” he says.

“Don’t touch me! I . . . I . . .”

Everything I had planned to say to him has flown out of my head. All I can see is his battered face, his bloodied hands, the snarl still baring his teeth. I see the unmistakable evidence of violence. Evidence of the life he leads.

A life that can’t include a child.

“I’m going away tomorrow,” I say, through numb lips. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”

Dante stands perfectly still, his hands falling to his sides. “You don’t mean that,” he says.

I don’t. I don’t mean it. But I have to do it.

“This is over between us,” I tell him. “We’re done.”

He looks stunned. Dazed, even. “Please, Simone . . .”

I shake my head, silent tears coursing down my cheeks. “I’m leaving. Don’t follow me.”

He swallows hard, his lip split and swollen. “I love you,” he says.

For once, the one and only time, his voice sounds gentle. It tears my heart in half like paper. Tears it again and again.

I could stay. I would stay, if it were just me.

But it’s not just me anymore.

I turn and run away from him.