I MARRIED A GANGSTER: [2018 EDITION]

Twenty-Eight

We were in the car for hours and most of the time I spent asleep or thinking of the worse. Francesco was missing. My husband could be dead right now. The situation was enough for me to have a meltdown but somehow, I remained calm. Every five hours, Henri would stop and let me pee and pick up something to eat.

A few times we had to stop so I could vomit. I was afraid I was becoming ill. It wasn't the best time, but it kept my mind off the worst-case scenario.

But after my third time throwing up another fear had begun to settle in my stomach. One that Henri understood without words. On the sixteenth hour, Henri pulls up outside a small parlor that read something in French on the outside of it.

"Where are we?" I ask while peering through the raindrops on the window.

"I need to do something, but I want you to rest here while I do it."

"At the bar?"

"I trust the man who works here, and he owes me a favor," Henri says as he parks the car. We climb out and Henri makes his way through the doors.

Behind the bar, an elderly man sat with a cigar in his mouth and a few men sat throughout.

"Jean-Pierre!" Henri greets with a heavy French accent. The elderly man leaped up and smiled at Henri, coming around the bar and hugging him as though they were longtime friends.

Once they began speaking in French, I began assessing my surroundings. Everything was in French and the men in the parlor seemed to have very animated conversations that were also in French.

None of them truly paid any attention to me, they were all in their worlds.

My thoughts traveled to Francesco but they were interrupted when Jean-Pierre turned his attention to me.

"Jean-Pierre." He holds his hand out to me. I slowly raise my own and shake his firmly, "Eleanor." I say softly.

"You will stay here until later. Jean-Pierre will protect you. I will be back soon." Henri says before briskly exiting the parlor.

I hadn't had a chance to reply before he was gone. Now I felt awkward and completely alone.

"You are safe. Have a seat." Jean-Pierre says.

I take a seat on the stool as he pours me a drink. I felt out of place here.

"Ale." Jean-Pierre says, "You can sleep upstairs if you are tired."

Jean-Pierre had to be well into his seventies. His hallow face and green eyes showed his age easily. A large cigar hung out of his mouth and he wore a brown fedora.

"I'm fine, thank you."

I took a sip from the cup and relaxed at the taste. Again, I tried to let my thoughts wander over to my husband but I was interrupted.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle." A deep voice says softly in my ear. Entirely too close.

I pulled away.

"Leave her," Jean-Pierre says and I noticed he had a large sawed-off shotgun in his hand.

The man grumbled and walked away from me. I gave Jean-Pierre a small smile and stared at my cup.

Bells rang out in the parlor and in walked Enzo Vidal, a familiar face. His blue eyes found mine and he smirked. Enzo walked over and ordered something in French and sat down next to me.

"Come here often?" he asks softly with a warm look in his eyes. Someone else pulled a seat up next to me and I turned to face them.

It was a woman.