“Where is Greg?” I ask, feeling tears prick the corners of my eyes.
“Getting a new crib. He insists that the one we have isn’t stable enough.” She smiles down at Ashley. “Your daddy would do anything for you. Yes, he would. He loves you more than you’ll ever know. We both do.”
Sarah cradles Ashley closer to her. Ashley gazes up Sarah, taking in every detail of her face. It’s such a look of wonder, I can’t imagine at what age that bond is forged between a child and parent.
Ashley raises her small fist up, opening it enough for Sarah to touch her fingertip against Ashley’s palm. Ashley closes her fingers, clinging to her mother’s finger. I glance up at Sarah. She is looking down at Ashley with such an intense amount of adoration, it feels downright intrusive to be sitting there. Sarah slips her finger out from Ashley’s grasp, takes her hand carefully, and kisses the tiny finger.
This could have been me a decade ago. The house wouldn’t be as nice, I would likely be more stressed out, and I’d be doing it alone, but I’d be filled with the same devotion and reverence.
“I love you,” Sarah coos to her baby. “I love you so much.”
Ten years without my daughter. I didn’t just miss this part, I missed the millions of milestones after it—the first smile, the first word, bedtime stories, her first hobby, the fear and triumph of learning how to ride a bike, the homemade Mother’s Day gifts, the cuddling. Even the bad things—the constant chatter, the germs, the cost, the sleepless nights, the loss of privacy, the tantrums—are missed opportunities. I should have fought so much harder for her.
Being forced to be around a man is something that I didn’t think I’d ever agree to. After leaving my father, I considered freedom to be a top priority and men to be prison guards. But the fact is that Maksim performed a miracle when he found my daughter. There will always be a sliver of gratitude in my heart for that, even when I know he only found her to get revenge on my father by coercing me. My priorities have changed. It’s almost like I’ve had a baby all over again—my life is different now. Like Sarah said, everything else has become less important. I don’t even know my daughter, but everything else has faded in comparison.
“It’s nothing. It’s just nothing,” the man named Patrick Donnan is saying.
“I think it’s something,” I counter. “The Irish Mafia backed up quickly when the Bratva rose up. You guys weren’t scared of the NYPD raiding your bars or trying to infiltrate your organization, but you ran when the Russians came knocking.”
I survey my surroundings. It’s ugly in here. The only conclusion I can draw is that prison visitation rooms are built in order to depress everyone inside them. The concrete walls and floor are there to remind the families that life is cold. The metal table and chairs are there to remind lawyers that their client is going to be surrounded by steel bars for the rest of their life. The flickering lighting is to remind the prisoners that the light at the end of the tunnel is nothing more than the dancing flames of hell.
Sitting across from this incarcerated Irish hitman in Eastern Correctional Facility, I have no problem imagining him burning in the afterlife. All of my sources told me he was the one to go to about Mafia business—he was an enforcer for the Irish Mafia but he also loved to boast about his past because he liked the power dynamic that was created when he knew something that other people wanted to learn. Like journalists, he knows knowledge is power.
He raises an eyebrow. His face is overgrown with bushy, orangish-red facial hair. “Sweetie, I agreed to talk to ye after Al told me ye were hot enough that your memory would keep my hands busy for a week. Or two. But ye still need to watch your tongue. I know people.”
I lean back in my chair, opening my arms wide to show I’m not afraid—a lie, but one that needs to be constantly stated when it comes to Mafia business.
“I know people, too,” I say. “Do you remember Gianluigi Balducci? He was still doing well before you got locked up. He had a daughter. Do you remember her? That’s me, Patrick.”
“Ah.” He smirks. “The prodigal daughter, finally returned to her daddy’s side, eh?”
“Not quite. But if he found out that you had upset me, it wouldn’t make him happy.”
Patrick shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. Your old man is old news. I’ve heard the Bratva is dead set on sending your family to the cemetery, wrapped up in pretty wooden boxes. Your dad’s not going to do shit to me while dealing with those psychopaths.”
“Those psychopaths could become your problem. If they decide you’re too chatty to live, they’ll deal with you.”
“Why would I tell ye anything then?” He scratches at his beard. “Ye just told me the exact reason I shouldn’t talk—they’ll come for me and they’ll gut me worse than a fish.”
“I’m asking about minor details,” I say. “I’ve gotten a fair amount of dirt from other people. I could easily write half my article with what I have. I’m just looking for some extra information to add some grit to it. Nobody has to know anything came from you.”
Patrick tugs twice on his beard. “I am having trouble with a couple of your father’s men. Maybe we
