SACRIFICE | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Heather thinks my brother, Nathan, left to tend to a family emergency. And she continued to believe this lie until this morning when forcing me to leave the sanctuary of my bedroom. I had spent almost three weeks hauled-up in bed, ordering fast food and consuming alcohol to the point of inebriation.

According to Heather, I take the life of a solivagant and wander the halls at night, half-naked, fluffy knee-high socks and a bottle of vodka in hand.

Thank God this place has no occupants bar me.

She said I am quite the storyteller when drunk. I was amazed and on the verge of vomiting when enjoying a sugar-infused beverage with the innkeeper who enjoyed making me squirm in my seat. She knows I am an unnatural blonde and that my eyes tend to change colour, depending on what mood I am in. She concluded I am a married woman, running away from her husband to rendezvous with Nathan who's now left me and that's why I cry so much.

If only the intrusive woman and her theories were true. Escaping a violent husband to hide with my lover would be the least of my worries. I'd sell my soul to the devil for that existence if it meant resurrecting Summer.

Summer Williams was laid to rest last Thursday. Her tragic death captured the headlines, catalysing hundreds of mourners, all wearing black and pale pink, to gather at the church and show their respects. Five hearses brimming with floral tributes from London led the carriage, four black horses with feather plumes.

Devastatingly morose and heartbroken, I attended and watched from the sidelines, blonde hair pinned back, black sunglasses concealing my eyes. I didn't enter the church. No one did, except for Jace and his family, Tommy and the gypsy community, who travelled from Liverpool.

Tommy and Jace huddled together under the church's archway, their backs to newscasters. The gypsy king handled Jace's bereavement with composed understanding and spiritual elevation.

I wasn't privy to their heart-to-heart, not close enough to hear. I sensed Jace, at that moment, venerated Tommy, riveted by his every encouraging and assured word. They share something most blood-related families do not: dedicated adoration, resolute respect and unitised emotions. When one smiles, the other laughs. When one hurts, the other aches. When one cries, the other promises vengeance and tribulation.

Jace left with his family after Summer's burial. I stood back—showing my face was thoughtless and inappropriately disrespectful—until only the squawking crows and drizzled smog welcomed me.

I bought pink roses from the florist and bound ribbon around the stems, nestled and weaved them between tear drop sprays, casket adornments and beautiful-shaped tributes.

It was cold, depressing and raining, but I sat beside Summer's sleeping place, telling her stories from my childhood. Happy memories of how I used to love stuffed animals and fruit picking and the times where I helped my mother paint and craft.

I unravelled a heart-shaped dream catcher, weaving beautiful metallic bells and beads and draped it from a chrome lantern border. "My mum used to say a dreamcatcher is a protective talisman," I'd whispered, the wind softly blowing the fine threads, clinking the chimes together. "It helps to protect us from nightmares and bad dreams."

Leaving Summer broke my heart. I never slept that night. Benumbed, I laid alone in bed, the rain thrashing against the window. The miserable weather and dark skies magnified regret and anguish.

How can I sleep knowing she had nobody?

How can I sleep when she's never going to wake up?

How can I sleep in a comfortable bed, while she's out there, cold and isolated?