Stolen Mafia Bride by Mae Doyle

 

Tess

Iswear, if I open my eyes and it’s not almost time for my alarm to go off, I’m probably going to lose my shit.

No, scratch that. I’m definitely going to lose my shit.

Every morning for the past week I’ve woken up well before my alarm and it’s about enough to drive me into an early grave. I’m only twenty-two, for goodness’ sake, but with the way I’ve been sleeping…make that haven’t been sleeping…I’m going to look close to fifty pretty soon.

Maybe it’s time that I actually talk to a doctor about getting something to help me sleep rather than just relying on my white noise machine and crossing my fingers that I’ll make it past three in the morning.

My eyes are bleary and the numbers on the clock across the room from me are blurred, but when I squint a little I’m able to make them out even though the bright red glow makes me want to pull a pillow back over my head and pretend I didn’t wake up yet.

3:47.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, throwing my blankets down towards the end of the bed and sitting up too abruptly. My head pounds in protest and I immediately reach for the water that I keep by my bedside table. A few big chugs of that will help to quiet the pounding in my head and keep me from feeling sick.

The water is room temperature and tastes a bit stale. Wrinkling my nose, I drink it anyway, then swing my legs out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. The overhead light will blind me if I turn it on now, so I flick on the light in the shower, casting the entire bathroom in an eerie sort of glow.

“Okay, what am I working with?” I ask, leaning forward and regarding myself in the mirror. I’m tired, sure, but I don’t look terrible. It’s probably all of the running that I’ve been doing lately and the fact that I don’t drink anything but water. My best friend, Kristen, says that I’m boring, but at least I don’t look like a dried-up prune right now.

Turning, I check out the side view in the mirror, then give myself a little nod. “Could be worse,” I say, running my hand over my stomach. My mom wasn’t around when I was growing up, so I really don’t have any idea of what I might look like as I get older, but I want to make sure that I have the best possible chance of looking and feeling good.

I haven’t ever married, and most people seem to think that window is already closing for me. At twenty-freaking-two. It’s not that I believe them most of the time, but when you think about it, I still haven’t met someone. Sometimes I allow myself to wonder if maybe they’re right.

I brush my teeth and pee before pulling my hair into a ponytail and changing into running clothes. Rather than going for a long run around the park, I think I’m going to run to the bakery downtown and then back. It’s Saturday, and I think I deserve a bear claw for making it through the rough week that I just had. Going for a run at the same time will keep me from feeling too guilty about indulging.

On my way out the front door I shake some food into Arthur’s tank. My betta fish has been with me for a long time and as long as I remember to toss him some dried pellets once a day, he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m never home. Much easier than a cat or a dog.

“Or a boyfriend,” I mutter to myself as I lock my apartment and head downstairs. I live close to Main Street, which makes this little excursion into town fast and easy.

It’s chilly outside and the cool air hits me right in the lungs. I suck in a big breath, then do a couple of jumping jacks to get the blood pumping. The Purple Monkey, my favorite bakery, doesn’t unlock their doors until after four, but I’ve been running there early on Saturday mornings for a year now and they always relent and bring me a hot bear claw even if they aren’t officially open yet.

Either they feel bad for me or hate that I’m willing to shamelessly stare in the window at them until they cave and bring me something. I probably should feel a little badly about guilting them into feeding me this early in the morning, but I don’t. I’m giving them business, aren’t I?

I break into a slow jog, picking up speed as I go. The night is quiet and full, the moon overhead a tiny sliver that barely breaks through the darkness surrounding me. Sure, there are street lamps glowing, and some of the buildings have lights on inside as other early birds like me get up and get their days going, but mostly it’s just really dark out.

I like it.

Working long hours at my job in urgent care has me running all kinds of ragged. Since I’m not married and I don’t have any kids, I’m usually the one who gets assigned the strange shifts so that other people can be home with their families. I tell myself that Arthur and I don’t mind, but part of me would love to have someone waiting for me when I got home.

I pass the bank and turn a corner onto a side street. In two blocks I’ll be at the bakery. Even though I know that it’s not possible, I honestly feel like I can already smell the delicious treats they’re making. I could always try something different this morning, but I probably won’t.

There’s just something about eating the same thing every Saturday morning that brings me a little comfort.

On Main Street there are a few more people, mostly business owners getting an early start to their day, but none of them stop me or try to talk to me. I feel invisible and even though it’s a weird feeling, I kinda like that I think I could get away with anything here and nobody would ever know. They’d never remember the brunette running down the street.

I move as quietly as possible, making sure to get out of the way of anyone who looks like they’re in a hurry, and in under ten more minutes I’m in front of the Purple Monkey.

Before looking in the window, I take a moment to slow down my breathing. You’d think that I wouldn’t get winded since I make this run all the time, but I always push myself really hard for the last two blocks so that I can get here as quickly as possible.

The first thing that I notice is that it’s really dark inside. Usually, by now, the lights are all on and the kitchen staff is there in full force as doughnuts are fried, muffins are baked, and someone sneaks bagels in from the back parking lot so that the owners can pretend that they actually boil their own onsite.

Everyone in town knows that they don’t, so I don’t really know why they try to keep up the charade.

But this morning is different. There aren’t any lights on. I step closer to the window, cupping my hands around my eyes so that I can see through the glass. I press my hands up against the pane, straining to see anything, waiting for a moment as my eyes adjust.

I was wrong when I said there weren’t any lights on in the bakery. None of the front lights are on, but I can see a soft glow from the back office. That’s not somewhere I’ve ever been, obviously, but I’ve seen people go in and out before, usually with hard looks on their faces.

“What in the world’s going on in there?” I wonder aloud. I really need to stop talking to myself. That could very well be part of the reason why I don’t have a boyfriend. At least, that’s what Kristen tells me, and I really don’t have any reason not to believe her. She always had a steady stream of suitors before settling down and playing for team married—happily, I might add—for the past year.

As if to answer my question, the door to the back room suddenly swings open. I can’t see much, but I can see that there are two people in there, backlit as they walk out from the back room into the kitchen. Even though I know that I’m not going to get a bear claw this morning, I still can’t pull my eyes away from what’s happening. It’s intriguing, for some reason.

One of the men is the owner. Although I can’t see his features, I recognize him just from his frame. He’s fairly short, but portly, and always joking with me that I need to take him out on a run.

The other guy I don’t know. He’s huge, much taller than the owner, and seems to tower over him. A knot grows in my stomach as I watch the scene play out in front of me. I have a feeling that I should turn away and not watch what’s going on, but it’s like a train wreck and I honestly can’t look away.

My eyes widen in horror as I see the owner struggle to pull something from his pocket. He levels it at the bigger man and I let out a gasp when I realize that it’s a gun.

Why does the bakery owner have a gun?

The two shots are so loud and so sudden that at first I don’t realize what just happened. Both men jerk a little, and the owner falls down to the ground.

I know that I should just turn and run. Icy fear grips the back of my spine and slowly travels along my body, making it impossible for me to think straight.

I should run. I should get away from here.

And what do I do instead?

I scream like a fucking idiot.