Her eyebrows hike up her forehead. “Excuse me?”
“It’s cold.” I pull her hood over her head, button up her jacket, and wrap her scarf around her properly, all while she gawks at me. “And for God’s sake, Bella, if you’re going to run, at least take some money and the IDs with you. This isn’t amateur hour.”
Chapter 31
ISABELLA
Rough cotton scratches against my cheeks as I turn over in bed. My back hurts. My ass hurts. My goddamn eyes hurt. I’m so sick of sitting in a freaking car.
Even with Roman and I’s fickle truce after he picked me up from the station, things are still tense. I’m not ready to go back to where we were before he went to prison or even before I almost got kidnapped.
But he’s trying to make it up to me; I know he is.
After a lot of arguing last night, he respected my wishes to let me have a bed all to myself. Trying to fall asleep while he watched me from his spot on the chair was unnerving, but I managed to, eventually. Part of me thinks he only agreed to keep his hawk eyes on me to ensure I don’t run again.
I honestly wasn’t sure how I got away yesterday morning. He’s a light sleeper, and he’s become worse since he came back. I guess prison changed him after all.
Peeling my eyelids back, I survey the room, searching for Roman. The bathroom door is open, and all our stuff is still here. He probably went off to get breakfast. I guess he thinks leaving me is a show of trust or something.
But I admit, it’s unlike him to be out of bed before nine-thirty in the morning.
Whatever, he’ll be back whenever he’s back.
Yawning, I rub sleep out of my eyes as I crawl out of bed, ready to use all the hot water. I reach for one of the duffle bags on the floor—they all look the same, so it’s a guessing game to figure out which is mine.
Kneeling on the floor, I stretch and click out my rigid joints before unzipping the bag to get a change of clothes. Various shades of dark clothes spill out of the bag as I search for a pair of underwear and a fresh shirt before I realize that I’m looking through Roman’s bag.
Just as I’m about to place the contents back in, my fingers wrap around something solid. Frowning, I pull it out and inspect the stack of envelopes tied together by rubber bands. Needles prickle my throat as nervousness fills my body. It’s addressed to me.
Tentatively, I remove the bands and pick up the first letter, seeing it ripped open already. Right in the corner is a stamp: UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY. Every single letter has the same return and sending address.
My heart slams against my chest, unsure if I should pull it out. Why does Roman have this? Why is it addressed to me? Who opened it?
I glance around as if he might have materialized out of thin air to answer my questions, but it’s just me and the stack of letters calling my name.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pick up the first envelope and unfold the letter, reading the scratchy handwriting.
Dear Isabella,
What’s up Princess,
Ignore the first line. I didn’t realize how hard it was to figure out how to start a letter. Shit’s too formal. I should warn you that this is the first time I’ve written without auto-correct in over a year so if you see any spelling mistakes, no, you didn’t.
And ignore the shitty handwriting because if you didn’t know, I got shot (like, literally, with an actual gun and bullet). Don’t freak out though, I’m alright. Now. I wasn’t for half a second there. I had a half decent doctor and a couple decent nurses. And don’t get jealous, I’ve been waiting on you to give me a sponge bath (I didn’t realize how much I used the winky face emoji until now).
Anyways, you’ve probably been wondering where I’ve been (and I refuse to believe that you know where I am but you’re intentionally ignoring me). Just know that I haven’t left you, and I’ll be back to being your loyal bodyguard/ man-servant/ chef/ hair stylist/ guinea pig/ art supply dealer/ soulmate/ human heater/ sexy taxi driver in three years.
There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it:
Those fuckers Maxim and Mikhail know how to fight.
Their mom has a solid aim.
I got arrested.
Surprise! I’m now in prison.
It fucking S U C K S in here. And my chest hurts like a bitch all the time. But what sucks even more is that I don’t have your pretty face and your sweet voice to make my day anymore. Which leads me to my next point. You changed your phone number? What the fuck? I expect a letter ASAP with your new number.
Okay, my chest is starting to hurt too much to write. I expect to see your cute little butt on Saturday when we can have visitors.
Congratulations btw, you now have a prison pen pal.
From your one and only,
M.
P.S. Marry me? We can have conjugal visits.
A lone tear drops onto the paper, making the rough black ink bleed all over the page. He really did try to get in touch with me. He didn’t forget about me.
I suck in a sharp breath. Roman told me Marcus and Greg took the letters he wrote, and I never thought twice about what he said. I could’ve asked about them, or checked if he took them so the police wouldn’t connect the dots to him so easily. But as always, I’ve been too caught up in myself.
I pick up the next letter.
Hello Isabella,
I’m mad at you, so you don’t even get any nicknames right now.
Firstly, what the fuck? I’ve sent you four letters now and you haven’t responded to a single one of them. No, “Hi Mickey, I missed you so much. Can’t talk right now!” or “My darling Mickey, oh dear! Are you okay?” from you? Literally nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
Come to think of it, there’s no ‘secondly’. You haven’t answered my calls or visited me. Even this fucker named Damien came to visit me. I almost turned down his visit in case you showed up, but guess what? You didn’t.
WHY.
WON’T.
YOU.
ANSWER.
ME?
Someone tried to stab me today, and they came real fucking close to killing me because I could barely move my arms. Do you even care?
Oh, and in case you were wondering, I’m healing great after my wound got infected. Thanks for asking. Really appreciate that, Isabella.
I’ll probably forget about how mad I am at you if you respond. But you better have a really damn good reason for the radio silence.
The only time I get to talk to you is in my dreams, and that’s not good enough for me anymore. I want the real thing. I want the real you.
I fucking miss you, Bella.
Respond to me. Please.
Yours,
Mickey.
P.S I’m still serious about the conjugal visits. Say the word and I’ll get it arranged ASAP.
There’s no stopping the tears streaming down my face.
We both suffered. I haven’t stopped for one second to think what it was like for him for the past three years. I’m not the only one who felt like life was ripped away from me, and I’m so unbelievably selfish for being so goddamn self-absorbed.
The next letter I pick up is dated earlier this year.