Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel(73)

My thoughts are spinning like car tires in mud, and I clutch my head, holding back the sobs I feel welling up in my chest.

"I can't live like this," I say in a thick voice to Natalie, refusing to let myself cry in front of her. I can feel her eyes on me, though. "Hell, I don't know if I will live like this when the mob finds out I won't be able to make my payments."

Sitting up on the couch, I fold my legs beneath me and reach for the glass of cheap wine I have on the coffee table. My eyes wander across the room to an open box of old sports paraphernalia. A few signed baseballs, team pictures, postcards, mostly Mets stuff.

Can't sell any of that. Those belonged to Dad.

I stand up and make my way over to the box, pulling out a baseball and tossing it up and down thoughtfully.

You piece of shit, why'd you leave me to clean up this mess? You knew Mom and Steve weren't gonna be around to help me with this. You really couldn't find one of your goddamned Good Ol' Boys to help you out with money? Nobody owed you any favors, really?

Maybe I should just sell this crap.

But tears start to well up in my eyes at the thought, and I tear my eyes away from the box, pushing it under the couch so Natalie won't bring it up later.

Unfortunately for me, she proves adept at finding sour memories on her own.

“Tragic accident?” pipes up Natalie from across the room. My heart sinks as I glance over to see her poring through a stack of wrinkled old newspapers. “Wow, August 27, 2012. Why do you still have this stuff? You pack rat,” she adds with a giggle.

“Uh, it’s just some personal stuff,” I say hastily, and step across the cluttered floor to try and take the pile of papers back. Natalie cocks her head and I can see the little cogs turning in her brain as she puts two and two together.

She puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me an apologetic look. “What is it?”

I tuck the newspapers under my arm and turn away. I knew this would come up eventually. I just didn’t expect it to be now, while I have so much else going on. But when it rains, it pours, I suppose.

“I was in class when it happened. A summer class — intro to biology,” I begin quietly. The memory comes trickling back into focus. I was nineteen then, just starting out in college and totally absorbed with sorority life, with studying and partying in equal doses. “A cop came into the lecture hall and interrupted the professor to ask for me.”

“Oh no,” breathes Natalie.

“Yeah. They drove me to the hospital and I waited in the surgical ward for hours. All three of them were there. My mom, my little brother Steven, and my dad,” I say slowly, swallowing back the lump in my throat. It’s still hard to think about, even after a few years. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can still remember the smell of the hospital.

After a moment I continue. “Well, my dad was driving when the brakes went out on the bridge. He swerved so he wouldn’t hit the car in front of him but the car spun out and hit the railing on the left side. My mom was in the passenger seat and Steven was in the back behind her. They got the worst of it. Obviously, Dad pulled through after some stitches and a concussion. But my mom and brother… they didn’t make it.”

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Katy. I met your dad shortly before he died. He’s the one who hired me, and he was a great guy. But you know better than I do, he was all business. I had no idea what kind of stuff you guys went through.”

I shrug, rolling the newspapers up and out in my hands — a nervous tic I’ve developed. I always have to keep my hands busy with something. I know I’m strong, but I guess all that trauma has to come out some way or another.

“Yeah, Dad and I have that in common,” I admit lightly.

“Hey,” Natalie says with a gentle faux-punch to my arm, “you’re a tough kid. And maybe I didn’t know him for very long, but I can tell you without a doubt that he would be so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Nat,” I reply. But it’s hard for me to believe her words, knowing how close to falling apart I am, so close to losing everything my dad worked so hard for.

She sits down on the floor cross-legged and picks up a black binder full of baseball cards and photographs. A grin spreads across her face and she looks up at me.

“This all his stuff, I imagine?” she asks.

I nod and sit down across from her. “Yep. Dad was a huge baseball fanatic. I was eight when Steven was born and I remember my dad trying so hard to get him to say “Go Mets” as his first word.”

Natalie laughs. “But that’s two words!”

“I know! That’s what my mom said, too,” I reply with a chuckle. “But his first word ended up being ‘Kate,’ much to my father’s disappointment.”