My heart slams against my chest, unsure if I should pull it out. Why does Roman have this? Why is it addressed to me? Who opened it?
I glance around as if he might have materialized out of thin air to answer my questions, but it’s just me and the stack of letters calling my name.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pick up the first envelope and unfold the letter, reading the scratchy handwriting.
Dear Isabella,
What’s up Princess,
Ignore the first line. I didn’t realize how hard it was to figure out how to start a letter. Shit’s too formal. I should warn you that this is the first time I’ve written without auto-correct in over a year so if you see any spelling mistakes, no, you didn’t.
And ignore the shitty handwriting because if you didn’t know, I got shot （like, literally, with an actual gun and bullet）。 Don’t freak out though, I’m alright. Now. I wasn’t for half a second there. I had a half decent doctor and a couple decent nurses. And don’t get jealous, I’ve been waiting on you to give me a sponge bath （I didn’t realize how much I used the winky face emoji until now）。
Anyways, you’ve probably been wondering where I’ve been （and I refuse to believe that you know where I am but you’re intentionally ignoring me）。 Just know that I haven’t left you, and I’ll be back to being your loyal bodyguard/ man-servant/ chef/ hair stylist/ guinea pig/ art supply dealer/ soulmate/ human heater/ sexy taxi driver in three years.
There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it:
Those fuckers Maxim and Mikhail know how to fight.
Their mom has a solid aim.
I got arrested.
Surprise! I’m now in prison.
It fucking S U C K S in here. And my chest hurts like a bitch all the time. But what sucks even more is that I don’t have your pretty face and your sweet voice to make my day anymore. Which leads me to my next point. You changed your phone number? What the fuck? I expect a letter ASAP with your new number.
Okay, my chest is starting to hurt too much to write. I expect to see your cute little butt on Saturday when we can have visitors.
Congratulations btw, you now have a prison pen pal.
From your one and only,
M.
P.S. Marry me? We can have conjugal visits.
A lone tear drops onto the paper, making the rough black ink bleed all over the page. He really did try to get in touch with me. He didn’t forget about me.
I suck in a sharp breath. Roman told me Marcus and Greg took the letters he wrote, and I never thought twice about what he said. I could’ve asked about them, or checked if he took them so the police wouldn’t connect the dots to him so easily. But as always, I’ve been too caught up in myself.
I pick up the next letter.
Hello Isabella,
I’m mad at you, so you don’t even get any nicknames right now.
Firstly, what the fuck? I’ve sent you four letters now and you haven’t responded to a single one of them. No, “Hi Mickey, I missed you so much. Can’t talk right now!” or “My darling Mickey, oh dear! Are you okay?” from you? Literally nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
Come to think of it, there’s no ‘secondly’。 You haven’t answered my calls or visited me. Even this fucker named Damien came to visit me. I almost turned down his visit in case you showed up, but guess what? You didn’t.
WHY.
WON’T.
YOU.
ANSWER.
ME?
Someone tried to stab me today, and they came real fucking close to killing me because I could barely move my arms. Do you even care?
Oh, and in case you were wondering, I’m healing great after my wound got infected. Thanks for asking. Really appreciate that, Isabella.
I’ll probably forget about how mad I am at you if you respond. But you better have a really damn good reason for the radio silence.
The only time I get to talk to you is in my dreams, and that’s not good enough for me anymore. I want the real thing. I want the real you.
I fucking miss you, Bella.
Respond to me. Please.
Yours,
Mickey.
P.S I’m still serious about the conjugal visits. Say the word and I’ll get it arranged ASAP.
There’s no stopping the tears streaming down my face.
We both suffered. I haven’t stopped for one second to think what it was like for him for the past three years. I’m not the only one who felt like life was ripped away from me, and I’m so unbelievably selfish for being so goddamn self-absorbed.
The next letter I pick up is dated earlier this year.
Are you okay? Thunderstorm was really bad, and I know how scared you get.