REDEMPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

No, Bill is good people.

He tries to do better.

Adjusting the beanie hat on my head, I placed two flagons of cider on the workbench and, blowing into my palms, rubbing them together, I slumped onto the array of sleeping bags on the floor.

If Bill is in no position to thieve, I can intervene. It's on me to provide now just as long as I don't get caught.

I had a new book.

Healing The Shame That Binds You by John Bradshaw.

Tucking one arm behind my head, I stretched out on the floor and read highlighted passages.

Shame is internalised when abandoned. Abandonment is the precise term to describe how one loses one's authentic self and ceases to exist psychologically.

"Since the earliest period of our life was preverbal, everything depended on emotional interaction," I read, turning the page. "Without someone to reflect our emotions, we had no way of knowing who we were."

I hummed.

"Hell, in my opinion, is never finding your true self and never living your own life or knowing who you are."

I re-read the quote repeatedly.

"Who am I?" I stood to pace the hoarded space. "Who. Am. I?" My shoulders drooped. "I am an unwanted child. I live in a shed with a drunk dude. I eat stolen food to survive." Staring at the messy bed, I clasped the back of my head. "I am no one."

"Yuh name is Liam Warren." At the intrusion of Bill's voice, I spun around to face him. "Yuh ain't nobody. Yuh somebody." He stepped right up to me, his eyes fierce and determined. "Warren is inevitable."

I swallowed the knot in my throat. "Poetic."

"Seer." He tapped his temple. "Yuh still readin' those books, huh?

I nodded.

"Good," he approved. "Knowledge is the key to success." Removing his leather gloves, he tossed them on the metal shelving unit. "I earned some extra dollars this afternoon." Shaking rain droplets from his dreads, he closed the rickety door. "Yuh gonna be thrilled, Liam." He noticed the alcohol on the workbench, and his ebullience plummeted. "What did yuh do?"

My brow arched. "I got you some cider."

He looked sad yet grateful. "Wah mek yuh duh that?"

Great. He's angry. I always know when he's pissed because he accentuates every damn word in Jamaican. "Honestly, I can't handle your mood swings. You are irritable without alcohol."

"Mi nuh jink," he scolded, the vein in his neck pulsating. "Mi tryin' tuh quit."

I frowned. "Since when?"

"No more drink."

My frown deepened. "Yeah, but—"

"No," he berated, and my lips sealed. "Bill ain't interested."

Not wanting to argue, I pointed to the carrier bag in his hand. "What did you get? And why does it smell so good?"

"Yuh gonna love it." Unwrapping two newspaper parcels, he motioned to heaps of chips and battered fish. "Bill did well, huh?"

My stomach growled. "You've been banging on about chippy since I met you."

Passing me a plastic fork and a ketchup sachet, he delved into his food with delight. "I love fish and chips."

Forking greasy fodder around the newspaper, I delved in, sampling the goods. "Damn." Salt and vinegar never tasted so good. "I'll want one of these bad boys every night, now."