It was supposed to be the best thing for my marriage. But I don’t think anything would’ve helped us survive. Once a cheater always a cheater. I’m too fucking forgiving. I never should’ve believed him. Never should’ve married that sweet talking liar. But I wanted a baby. I wanted the whole package, the perfect life.
I didn’t want a cheating ass husband who blew his business in a shit deal, wanted control of my business, and then gambled away nearly everything I had. Thank fuck I grabbed a hold of my self respect and started putting my foot down. Even better that when I started feeling he was messing around that I confronted it head on. There are givers and takers in this world. I’m a giver, always have been. I know the givers have to set the limits, because the takers have none. Unfortunately, I’ve learned from experience. From my shit husband. I loosen my clenched fists as the news of his death hits me again.
I feel like such a bitch for being angry at him. He’s dead. He put me through hell and back, but he’s not here for me to be mad at any more. I’m so confused by my emotions. Six months ago, he let his business be torn to shreds and sold off, then blew that money on a shit deal. Two months ago I caught him in bed with another woman. Literally with her legs wrapped around his hips and her heels digging into his ass as he was fucking her. On our bed. Since then he’d been trying to get every penny of mine and hired the best lawyers he could to try to get full custody, with my fucking money. But a week ago he dropped dead of a heart attack. Out of no where. Left me with a shit ton of debt and a mess to clean up. I feel like a bitch for hating him in the end, for being relieved that this divorce and custody battle are no longer an issue, but most of all for not being more upset with him dying. I literally wished he would die. I was hoping that fucker would drop dead. And he did. How fucking horrible am I that I’m not more upset? That I don’t have more regrets?
Some days I hate myself.
And then I miss him. I see something, like a commercial for a restaurant we used to go to and it hits me hard. The tears come on before I can hold them back and I miss the old Rick. And then I hate myself for missing him. Maybe I’ve just turned into a hateful person.
Everything in the last year has gone to shit, but not Jax; he’s perfect. I keep going just for him. He’s my everything. As I watch him stumble on the grass and fall, I swear I see a movement to my left. A dark figure behind the trees. A cold shiver runs through my body as I jolt and stare into the trees. But I don’t see anything. My body tingles with anxiety as my heart tries to beat out of my chest. I swallow thickly and turn back to the field.
There’s no one there. I close my eyes and open them when I hear the women to my right clapping and cheering. One of the boys somehow managed to actually score a goal. I clap and yell and smile at my son who’s furiously waving at me. But somewhere deep inside me, fear settles.
I’m certain I saw something. Or someone.
I force a smile for my son and keep my feet planted where they are, but I can’t wait to get out of here, I need to shake this feeling.
Dom
“You’re late Dom!” My mom’s high pitched voice hits me with a touch of humor as she flicks the kitchen hand towel at me. “You’re lucky I’m running behind.” Ma always runs behind. Maybe it’s in our genes. The kitchen smells like her sauce and meatballs.
“Sorry Ma,” I give her a kiss on the cheek as I pull the flowers in my hand around to the front, “got you a gift though.”
She pats my cheek with her hand and smiles, “aw, you spoil me!”
“Dante! Why do you never get me any flowers! You should take notes from your son!” She screams past me to the dining hall and I all out grin. I love it when she does this shit. Calling my dad out in front of everyone. I chuckle as I walk to the dining room and see the family gathered around the table.
My dad made sure to build this house with a large enough dining hall for everyone. There’s at least twenty people in here. And it feels comfortable, it feels like home. I may not like everything about being a Valetti, but I fucking love Sunday night dinner.
“Pops,” I slap my hand on father’s shoulder, “looking good tonight.” Pops is getting old, but he still looks good. He’s got dark eyes, dark hair that’s greyed at the temples. I have his high cheek bones and sharp jaw line. He looks exactly like a mafia boss. And that’s good, cause that’s exactly who he is. I sit at his right across from my brother.
“What up Dom?” Vince is two years younger, making him 27. My chest pains remembering the dead fuck in my office was four years younger than my brother. Marco Whatever-the-fuck his last name was. My jaw clenches tight, knowing I gotta tell them what happened. Not here though, not at dinner. Ma doesn’t approve of that shit.