The Woman in the Trunk - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,26
that.
The family business was important to me. I had spent so much of my childhood there in that little bakery, learning my fractions as I stood on a stool beside my grandmother who explained it to me with measuring spoons and cups. I was taught patience watching each attempt at chocolate soufflé either burn or refuse to rise before I finally got it right. I learned about community in the connections made with repeat customers. I found pride in working with my hands, in keeping the morale up in the shop even in the worst of times.
And my grandfather wanted me to keep it in the family.
I felt like there wasn't a choice.
But there was.
Even if it was a bitter pill to swallow to admit that I had chosen my own miseries in life. Yes, even up to and including parts of this kidnapping. After all, had I moved across the country when there had been an urge to do so the day I turned eighteen, no one in the New York mafia would have been able to find and kidnap me to use against my father in the first place.
Though the actual kidnapping and imprisonment? I refused to own that. It wasn't my fault that these men thought women could be used as pawns in a power struggle or monetary negotiations.
That said, as the days were going on, I was starting to worry that maybe there would be no terms agreed to. What then? If my father didn't—couldn't—pay?
He would be killed, surely.
I was under no delusions about these men. As kind as Lorenzo had been to me, as a whole, he was absolutely capable of murdering my father in cold blood.
But if he was killed, what would happen to me? Would they let me go, only to strap me with the same shitty deal they had given my father? Always wanting more? Never letting me breathe easy?
Or would they cut their losses, make an example of me as well to anyone else who had daughters that could be used against their fathers?
I wasn't sure.
And, quite frankly, neither option sounded like something I wanted.
Sure, life was always better than death. But in this case, only very slightly. A lifetime personally indebted to the mafia sounded like hell on earth. It would no longer be something that affected me, but from a distance. It would be there right up in my face every time. And the threats I knew my father faced would be directed to me instead. Maybe even by this man who had been kind to me while he imprisoned me in his home.
For a couple days there, I had somehow started to view this entire situation like some sort of retreat, some vacation from my normal life.
I was in a penthouse apartment with every luxury afforded to me. Clothes were bought for me. Food was brought to me. And none of it cost me anything. The sheets were buttery against my skin. The products in the bathroom were more than I could ever afford, no matter how much I tried to trim my already thin budget.
And, to be honest, it was unexpectedly nice to share some time with another person.
Sure, I spent all my days with people: bakers and customers and Liane and even my father.
But my nights were quiet. And, if I would let myself admit it, lonely. I didn't remember the last time I shared a meal with someone. Watched a movie with someone. Made coffee for someone.
It had been nice, in a twisted way, to play house. To let myself forget that I was supposed to be railing against this, not settling into it.
I had to get myself the hell out of this situation.
And if my father didn't make it, I had to find a way to deal with this damn family too. I wasn't going to spend my whole life under their thumb, having them squeeze more money out of me every year for the rest of my life.
I was going to get out of this.
One way or another.
"Oh, hey there, sweetheart," a new guard called to me the following morning, sitting on the couch with a newspaper instead of standing guard at the elevator like I knew he was supposed to be. "I was told you would be done sulking eventually."
"Sulking?" I hissed, teeth clenching. "He said I was sulking?"
"That was the word he used," the guard agreed, giving me a nod.