“Mine,” Nico murmured, sending me over the edge.
My mouth parted in ecstasy, his declaration an anthem to my pleasure.
Mine. Mine.
I had a family.
I had Nico Mariano.
Epilogue
One year later
“Mrs. Mariano, would you like our specialty drink?” the bartender asked. I was visiting a new club, one that Nico was considering buying out.
“No, thank you,” I murmured before patting my flat stomach. I found out just last night that we were expecting our second baby. I couldn’t wait to tell Nico; I just didn’t know how. With Viviana, he missed out on so much. I just wanted to make this special for my husband and the father of my children.
My husband was over in the corner, talking to the current owners of the club. Satin Sheets was doing so well that he wanted to expand. I supported him completely. I really wanted to handle the drink menu. I’d started my own consulting business and was building back up my brand.
My husband eyed me and excused himself before walking my way. “Do you not want a drink?” he asked, which was code for, is this place a bad investment? He knew that I could sniff out a bad club within the first five minutes of walking inside. It was why he brought me with him to all his investment opportunities.
That and it was hard to separate us.
I bit my bottom lip. “I’m taking a break from drinking,” I replied with a sigh.
His brow furrowed. “A break?”
I waved down the bartender and asked for a water. “Yeah,” I replied nonchalantly. “For the next nine months at least.”
A hand wrapped around my wrist and I was gently pulled off my barstool. I smiled at Nico while realization settled in his expression.
“Nine months?” he asked.
“Viviana is going to be a big sister, Daddy,” I said with a grin. He wrapped me in a hug and spun me around.
Nico was dangerous. Our life was unconventional. But we were a family.
And we were happy.
A Piece of Us by Heidi McLaughlin
Chapter One
Jack
My head falls forward, startling me awake. I look around and readjust in my seat before looking out the plane window. It’s then the flight attendant announces our descent into Logan International Airport. My friend Mitch sleeps next to me with his mouth open, inhaling the stale and stagnant air. I poke him with my elbow, enough to wake him. Once he’s alert, he looks at me and smiles.
“We’re in freaking Boston, man!” Within seconds, Mitch has gone from a sleeping, germ huffing passenger to a full-blown tourist. The only issue is, we aren’t staying in Boston. Our destination is Montreal, Canada, for a friend’s wedding, and then Mitch and I will return to base.
“I think we have time to drive around, but from what I remember, traffic is a pain in the ass, and we have to drive north for a bit.”
“Still, we’re in freaking Boston!”
I love his enthusiasm. Mitch is from the west coast, near Sacramento, California. We met in boot camp, somehow managed to stay in the same unit for the past ten years, and have been best friends this entire time. Right now, we’re stationed in Tirrenia, Italy, at Camp Darby. We’ve been there for almost three years, and I still don’t know a lick of Italian, although I’m rather fond of the food.
We’re currently on leave for the week, and both up for re-enlistment. We have a month to decide whether to re-enlist, retire—although ten years doesn’t give us crap for benefits—or join the Guard. I’m leaning toward re-enlistment. The work is stable, as is the housing, and it’s not like I have family waiting for me to come home. On the other hand, Mitch has an on-again, off-again girl back in Cali, and his parents want him to come home. He’s always talking about how they want him to settle down, get married, and have kids because they’re not getting any younger. Mitch wants to party and play the field. Personally, I’m not sure he’s ready to be an adult yet.
Mitch and I have also talked about what we’d do if we left the Army. We’ve tossed around the idea of opening a business, maybe a brewery or a winery. After living in Italy, we have both discovered the fine art of wine drinking and eating pasta.
The flight attendant announces our arrival. “Welcome,” she says and then adds, “benvenuta” in Italian.
“I say we leave Montreal a day or so early and tour Boston. I want to see where they dumped the tea.”
“I’m game,” I tell Mitch as I unbuckle my seatbelt. I do this every time I fly commercial because it makes me feel like a rebel. This one time, the flight attendant came on over the intercom and said she could see who wasn’t buckled in. You could hear the clicking of belts over the roar of the engine. Everyone feared some sort of wrath I have yet to see.
We reach the gate, the plane jerks to a stop, and everyone unclicks their buckles to stand and open the overhead compartment for their belongings. I grab mine and Mitch’s bags. He slides over to my seat and stands, stretching and yawning. Jet lag will be a bitch tomorrow, but thankfully we’ll be in Montreal with nowhere to go until later.
Once we deplane, we make it through the airport and outside, where we get on the shuttle for our car rental agency. We both packed light, mostly because we own minimal clothing. I never had much when I enlisted, and we wear the same thing to work every day. I think at last count I owned a pair of jeans, a couple of pairs of shorts, a nice pair of pants, and maybe five or six shirts. I’m not even trying to live the minimalist life, but I do not need a closet full of clothing I’ll never wear. That’s another reason to stay in the Army. I don’t want to have to buy a houseful of items. I can’t even imagine the cost of things these days.
As promised, instead of getting right on the Interstate, I drive through Boston and point out what I remember. It’s been a long time since I took a high school field trip to the Revolutionary War sites, but there are a few things I haven’t forgotten. Before we drive north, I make a stop at Dunkin Donuts, something Mitch has never experienced.
“Nope,” he says after taking a sip. “It’s bitter. Nothing like the stuff we have back home.”
“Back home as in Tirreni or Sacramento? Because that shit in Cali is probably Starbucks.”
Mitch laughs and continues drinking. Over the years, I’ve come to drink whatever caffeine source will keep me awake and functioning. I’m not picky, nor can I afford to be. Awake and alert keeps my team and me alive.
Not an hour into the drive, Mitch is itching to pull off for something to eat. I haven’t paid attention to signs, but one town grabs my attention when I start looking at the upcoming exits. “Wow,” I mutter.
“What’s up?”
I shake my head and contemplate telling Mitch my thoughts. There are a few things I haven’t told him, mostly because I don’t want his pity. I don’t need it. I’ve long accepted the fact I come from nowhere and my family doesn’t exist. That, if I were to die, the service secretary takes care of my body. It’s pretty sad when I think about it.
“There’s a town coming up, Holyoak. I lived there for a bit, right before I enlisted.”