I was still on the linoleum floor of the hospital corridor, which was so cold, a shocking, grimy ice against my cheek. I'd sunk there, a bundle of silk and shame, after my parents' words had weakened me. Their voices, usually a source of comfort, had been whips of pure disdain.
"Associating with filth, Millicent! Look where it's gotten you! Look what you've done to Pascal!"
Their words echoed, each one a piece of broken glass grinding deeper. I had brought this upon us. My naivety, my stupid, bleeding heart that gave a feeling to a Mafia who'd fallen in with the wrong crowd, had led to this. Pascal was lying in a bed, broken and bandaged, because of a mistake. And my parents… they hadn't offered a shoulder. They'd offered a verdict: Guilty.
A sob tore from my throat, raw and ugly. The world had narrowed to the smell of antiseptic, the cold floor, and the crushing weight of my failure.
Then, a different scent cut through the chemical air: vanilla and sunshine. A familiar presence knelt beside me, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights.
"Milly?" Becky's voice was soft, a balm on a third-degree burn. "Oh, Milly."
She didn't ask what happened; she didn't need to. Her arms, strong and certain, wrapped around me, pulling my head from the floor and onto her shoulder. She was wearing her paint-splattered denim jacket, and I could feel the rough texture against my skin. It was real. She was real.
"They hate me," I choked out, the words barely intelligible.
"They're scared," she murmured, her voice firm. "They don't get to do this to you. Not today. Not ever."
She didn't try to disturb me with pretty words. Instead, she just held me, her hand making slow, steady circles on my back until my ragged breaths evened out into shaky hiccups. When the storm inside me had calmed to a dull, throbbing ache, she shifted.
"Come on," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You're coming home with me. You need a cup of tea that's mostly sugar and a blanket that doesn't smell like despair."
I let her lead me away, a sleepwalker clinging to her anchor. We didn't speak in the car. The silent solidarity was enough.
Just when I thought everything was beginning to clear from my head, we encountered another annoying event. As we turned onto our street, the sanctuary was breached.
Two police cruisers were parked outside my father's building, their blue and red lights painting the evening in uncontrolled, silent strokes. My heart, which had just begun to settle, launched itself into my throat.
"Becky?" I whispered, my voice thin with a new, fresh terror.
Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "It's okay. Just stay with me."
We walked into a scene of controlled chaos. The front door was open. Inside, two uniformed officers stood in the living room. And in the center of it all, sitting on the worn floral sofa, was my father.
Pascal's rich parents had arranged for the police to investigate the incident and arrest anyone who was found guilty. They lived in a city far away from Chicago. They cherished their son so much that they would bring down anyone who tried to stand in their way if it meant using their last drop of cash.
One of the officers, a woman with a severe ponytail and kind eyes, was speaking to him.
"Mr. Adofo, we understand you were not at home. But any information you can give us about Locas 'The Knife' Conti and his operations is crucial. We know he's been leaning on local businesses."
My Dad's eyes moved unsteadily to us as we entered, filled with a shame so profound it stole my breath. He'd left me at the hospital because the disgust was too much, and he'd come home to this; a greater shame.
Becky move straight to me, putting a hand on my shoulder, a fierce protectiveness radiating from her.
The female officer turned her attention to me. "You're Millicent?"
I could only nod, my gaze fixed on my dad.
The officer's voice was gentle but unwavering. "We believe the assault on your fiancé, Pascal, was carried out in this space. About the consequences of speaking out. We're building a case, but we need witnesses. We need people who are willing to stand up."
My dad looked at me, his eyes wells of so much anger and frustration. In that moment, the last blame of my self-pity burned away, replaced by a cold, sharp fury. It wasn't just my fault; it was Pascal's. His was the cancer, preying on a Mafia twisting old loyalties and breaking bones to make a point.
I looked from my dad's ashamed face to Becky's defiant one, and I thought of Pascal, his billionaire hands wrapped in plaster.
I straightened my spine. The girl crying on the hospital floor was gone.
"What do you need?" My voice was quiet, but it didn't shake. "I'll testify. I'll give a statement. I'll do whatever it takes."
The officer nodded, a glint of respect in her eyes. "We're going to arrest them, Miss Millicent. We're going to bring the whole lot down."
Becky's hand found mine, her grip like iron. We stood there, the three of us, surrounded by the evidence of our collective nightmare, and we made a silent pact.
Then Becky led me to the room where I narrated everything that had happened, from where I was kidnapped to when I felt an emotion that sparked something deep between me and Rocas, and to how the fight started. She was the only person who was willing to hear my side of the story.
Becky's presence beside me was a solid, warm anchor in my cold room. She hadn't said much, just stood there, a silent fortress of support. But when she finally spoke, her voice was low and firm, cutting through the moment of my despair.
"Millie," she said, turning me gently away from the heartbreaking sight. "Look at me."
I did. Her eyes, usually bright with laughter, were deadly serious.
"It's time to finally call it quits."
"What do you mean?" I replied.
"This is the end of the road for both you, Pascal, and Rocas." She looked at me confidently and continued. "It's time to finally quit the unhealthy relationship."