Thank you to 2brown-eyes, ceceprincess1217, gabby1017, and DICATAKADD for pre-reading, and to SunflowerFran for editing. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

There are two songs for this week's chapter. Love Me, and Wooden Heart ... both by Elvis. The YouTube links can be found in my Facebook group. :)

**IMPORTANT** Please read the note at the end of the chapter regarding my posting schedule for the next few weeks.

Chapter 8

Bella

The weeks following Uncle Tony's wedding are ... unsettling. I'm told to stay in the neighborhood, to be mindful of my surroundings, and not to speak to people I don't know. I have no idea why. Edward is distant, distracted, like he's trying to work something out in his head, and it worries me. It's familiar, and not in a good way. He's been leaving earlier every morning and home late each night for weeks, too.

So I'm shocked when on this particular Friday morning he's around long enough for me to make him breakfast.

"How does a casserole sound for dinner tonight?" I ask as I place his plate on the table.

He doesn't make eye contact with me when he answers, still focused on the newspaper in his hands. "Sure, that's fine," he says absentmindedly.

I sit in the chair across the table and study him while I help EJ manage his breakfast, placing small, cut pieces of banana on his high chair tray. Since starting cereal a few months ago, he's quickly moved on to other things and has decided he needs to at least attempt to feed himself. He's distracted with squeezing the smashed bananas through his tiny fists when I turn my attention back to my husband.

"So you'll be home for dinner, then?"

"Uh huh," he mumbles, not really paying any attention to me.

"Edward!" I don't mean to shout, but it comes out that way, startling all three of us.

EJ's eyes are wide, but he doesn't cry. He only stares, sitting stock-still in his high chair.

"Sorry," I say to both of them. "I didn't mean to raise my voice, but you're not even listening to me." My hands fall to my lap, and my shoulders fall, already tired from our non-conversation.

He folds the newspaper and lays it to the side. "I'm sorry," he says curtly. "What exactly was it you needed my undivided attention for?" His tone is biting, and I sit back in my chair, unwilling to argue first thing in the morning, or in front of our son, for that matter.

"I just asked if you'd be home in time for dinner and if a casserole was okay with you." My voice is low, and as I repeat the words over in my head, I realize how ridiculously unimportant this conversation really is.

He narrows his eyes at me. "I have no idea if I'll be home in time to eat with you. And honestly, Bella"—he stands from the table, only half his food eaten—"I don't care what you make." He kisses my forehead as he passes me by. "Love you. Don't wait up."

And with that, he's out the door. I'm left alone in the kitchen, a babbling eight-month-old my only company. I turn to my son, his bright, curious eyes reminding me of just how much I have to be grateful for, and decide not to let Edward's mood, or our conversation, affect me.

"How does a walk in the sunshine sound, my sweet boy?"

Feeling the tension leave the room with his father, he finally relaxes enough to smile, and his responding giggle makes the decision for me.

May turns into June, and I see my husband less and less. And when I do, his mind is somewhere else, far, far away. What started as a few missed dinners two months ago is now the norm.

The attention he'd showered me with in the days and weeks following our mutual understanding is now all but a distant memory. He comes in late more often than not and leaves most mornings before I'm awake. On the occasions when he is home, he's distracted and short-tempered, and not only with me. EJ's constant gibberish is enough to make him snap, which always leads to us arguing.

We share a bed, but he only occasionally seeks out refuge in my body from whatever storm is brewing inside him. When we do make love, it's been ... different. The gentle, attentive boy I fell in love with has been replaced with a man whose touch is more demanding, possessive. The desperation in his touch the night of Tony's wedding is almost a constant bedfellow.

I feel like I'm reliving the worst months of our marriage, the early days when he was hiding things from me, when he was never home. Those were days I thought were long behind us, and I'm not sure how much more I can take.

What hurts me most is, I don't know how to help him. I can see him struggling. I know whatever is festering beneath the surface isn't something I can fix or solve for him. He needs to find his own way and figure it out for himself.

A warm June breeze floats through the open window, along with the muted sounds of a few neighborhood children playing outside. I groan as the sunlight filters through the fluttering lace curtains and pull the sheet over my head in an attempt to delay the inevitable. Judging by EJ's cries, I know I've overslept. Cracking open one eye and focusing on the clock, I realize just how late it is. I throw back the covers and stumble my way to the baby's room, still so tired.

"I'm so sorry, EJ. Mommy was just so sleepy." I pick him up out of his crib, and he rests his tear-stained, beet-red face on my shoulder, his cries slowing into hiccups and stuttering breaths.

"Shh, it's okay. Mommy's here." I rub a soothing hand over his back until he calms enough to lay him on the changing table. I strip off his rubber pants and unfasten the pins before tossing his soiled diaper in the dirty bin.

Our late start throws off our entire day, and EJ's mood as well. Things go from feeling off to being downright miserable when his cries of pain due to cutting a new tooth add to the mix. The exhaustion and nausea I've been fighting since I begrudgingly rolled out of bed are a constant presence. I find myself more than once looking to the front door wishing someone would come and rescue me from my screaming baby so I can lie down.

By late afternoon, EJ decides the frozen washcloth he's been chewing on isn't what he wants, and has started up another crying jag. I'm now in Edward's office, hunting through his collection of liquor bottles for the Scotch. I remember Esme's advice with the first round of teething and pray it works this time.

I pour a small amount in a glass and dip my finger in before bringing it to EJ's open, wailing mouth. He first flinches back from the pressure I put on his swollen gums, and I can tell he isn't too fond of the taste. But I keep at it, and he eventually gives up and lays his head on my shoulder, the temporary relief allowing him to give in to his exhaustion.

I step slowly and lightly toward the armchair near the window and sit. Even though I'm exhausted myself, I can't fall asleep. I'm uncomfortable holding my nine-month-old in the straight-backed chair, but I make the best of it and at the very least relish in the temporary silence. As I shift EJ into a more comfortable position with his head resting against my chest and under my chin, I close my eyes and tip my head sideways, pressing my nose into his hair, breathing in his fresh, baby scent.

EJ expels a stuttering breath, and I tense for a moment. I open my eyes, thinking he'll wake up soon, but he merely shifts and drifts back to a deep sleep. I resist the urge to nod off myself, even if it's the only thing I want to do. Instead, I distract myself with making a mental list of chores I've overlooked in this room.

The shelves, as well as Edward's desk, have more dust on them than I'd like, the wastebasket needs emptying, and there are a few items of clothing discarded in the corner. It's not dirty; it's just not as tidy as I'd like it to be. He's reassured me many times he doesn't bring work home, and I'm free to clean what I need to, but being in here always makes me feel like I'm invading his private space.

When I think EJ is finally deeply asleep, I carefully stand, afraid to even breathe too deeply for fear I'll wake the poor sleeping child in my arms. I slowly walk toward the living room where I gingerly lower him into his playpen and slip my hands out from under him, all while holding my breath. He inhales and shifts, curling onto his side as he exhales. I blow out my own breath and slowly step away.

Glancing at the stairs, and even the sofa, I have the fleeting thought that a nap is exactly what I need, but decide a quick pick up of Edward's office wouldn't be too hard to accomplish. If I hurry, I can still have a quick rest before the baby wakes up.

I start by dusting the bookshelves, smiling at the few framed photographs he has scattered amongst his books. My favorite is from our wedding day as we stepped away from the altar and made our way back down the aisle toward the back of the church. The smiles we're both wearing are lighting our faces, and he's bringing my hand to his lips. It was taken with Alice's Kodak Brownie camera, and of all the shots taken that day, this one is my very favorite.

His desk isn't as dusty as the bookshelves were, but it's much more cluttered. A dirty glass, pens, and notes strewn about, and a folded newspaper cover the surface. I stack and straighten, moving things from one side to the other as I dust. Pens back in their place and notes all stacked, I gather the dirty glass to take to the kitchen and move to push aside the newspaper. As I do, I notice the ad above the fold.

The advertisement for the new arrivals in the men's department of Kaufmann's makes me smile. Always looking to dress for success, he's been almost as bad as some of the girls I used to know who would obsess over their appearance. He's told me now that he's driving important people around all day, he needs to dress the part.

The red ink on the newsprint gets my attention, underlining the new fedoras that will be offered this summer. A smile creeps in, and I think about surprising him with one for his upcoming birthday. I know it isn't anything life-changing, but it just might bring a smile to his face, which is something I really miss seeing. I glance at his desk calendar and realize I have a little less than two weeks before his birthday.

Making a mental note to call Rose and see if she wants to join me in another girls' shopping day, I tuck the newspaper under my arm and turn to the small pile of clothes on the floor. I snatch them up and make my way toward the basement, careful to step lightly through the living room as I pass. I place the glass in the sink and tuck the newspaper into a large cookbook to hide it before turning to walk down the stairs to our laundry room.

I pull the chain on the overhead bulb and shake out his clothes, one item at a time. I rifle through his pockets to check for forgotten slips of paper or a stray lighter or any other thing that could spell disaster for this small load of laundry. When I reach the last shirt in the pile, something catches my eye.

Smears of red are a stark contrast against the white polyester. My heart hammers in my chest and visions of the past—him burning his clothes, him huddled in the shower, his anguished cries—all assault my memory. If I'm finding stains like this on his clothing, I know his old demons have come back to haunt us, and this time I fear they'll be a lot harder to fight.

I reach for the peroxide on the shelf, but I'm brought up short when the fabric passes under the direct light of the bulb. It's not the deep red of dried blood, but the oily, bright red of a lipstick stain. What I thought was a cuff is actually a collar, making all kinds of scenarios pass through my mind.

He once told me meetings with some of these men took place in less than reputable places, and that even though it might look bad, he would never do that to me ... to us. I have to believe he wouldn't.

I have to.

I get to work scrubbing away the smear of red, eventually lightening to it to pink, before it's all but invisible. Along with the stain, I try and erase any lingering doubt I might have in my husband.

"What about this one?" Rosalie holds up a dark charcoal gray hat, and I scrunch my nose.

"No. It's wool, right? That one looks too heavy for summer."

She puts it back on the rack and shrugs. "What do I know about men's fancy duds?"

I chance a glance then train my eyes back on the racks of hats on display. "Emmett never gets dressed up when you two go out?"

She sighs, and her shoulders fall. "No, not really. And I'm lucky if I get to spend one evening a week with him these days."

"Something goin' on with you two? Oh, what about this one?" I show her the light gray hat with the olive green band circling it. The material is light and perfect for the warmer days ahead, and the green would bring out the color of Edward's eyes.

"Yeah, I like that one." She puts back the one she'd been toying with and steps closer as I move to the display of neckties, her voice low. "He, um, he said we should start seeing other people."

"Oh, Rose!" My eyes widen, and I pull her into a hug. "I'm so sorry. I thought for sure by now he'd be thinking about proposing." I pull away and meet her eyes. "You guys have been going steady for a long time."

She nods and takes a deep breath, putting on a brave face. "It's probably for the best. Margaret invited me to Chicago. Says she could use a roommate." She laughs. "Sure will be a change, living in the city full time."

"But ... Chicago? That's so far away, Rose. You're ... you'll—"

"Be just a phone call away. And we can write all the time. And just think about it; you can come visit me."

Tears well in my eyes, thinking about the girl I've been growing closer to, someone I felt I could really talk to, being so far away. Especially now, when I'm facing what could end up being some of the most difficult days of my marriage, the thought of Rose and her friendship being so far away makes my heart ache.

"Hey, stop it, Bella. You've got that little boy here to keep you busy, and a husband to spend your evenings with." She looks down at our joined hands, and her voice drops to a whisper. "I just need a change of scenery, a place to start over." Her eyes meet mine. "I've been with Emmett for almost four years, and he hasn't grown up very much in all that time. He's only a year younger than Eddie, and some days he still acts like he's fifteen." She shakes her head. "You've got a husband with a good-payin' job, a house of your own. He buys you jewelry and fancy dinners. I've got an overgrown child who thinks I'm still content with ten minutes in the back seat of his car and stopping at a burger joint for a bite. I just ... I need more, Bella. I thought you of all people would understand that."

"I do, I just ..."

She steps closer and wraps me in a hug. "I know."

The Boy

From my spot in the car, I watch men arriving one after the other, all here to witness something I'll never be a part of. But honestly, at this point, I'm not sure I'd want it even if they offered it to me.

They've spouted words like loyalty and honor. But I've also witnessed those same men turn on the ones who have been honorable and loyal and stab them in the back; sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally.

My uncle promised me a life of ease, the life of a comfortable man, if I'd just be willing to keep my head down and do what I was told. I did those things, but it's brought me nothing but regret; regret over the way I've treated my wife, regret about the things I've had to do. It's been a bitter pill to swallow.

Yeah, I've been able to buy my family a home, provide things for them, but the men I work for haven't kept up their end of the deal. The protection my uncle said this life would give me is the last thing I have. Instead, I have constant eyes on me, and men who could have me whacked with a nod of their heads. Threats, real or insinuated, have been made against my wife, my family, and I'm beginning to realize this life, and all it offers, isn't worth it.

My new gig, driving for Mr. Amato, only occupies my daytime and evening hours. It's been suggested that I make myself available to Felix again, and he isn't any happier about it than I am. He's still a little sore about me asking for another job. Regardless, I'm back to doing what I'm told, directly or indirectly, whether I like it or not.

Uncle Tony has been avoiding me since he got back from his honeymoon, and I'm worried about what that could mean. I feel like I'm living on borrowed time with these men, and I don't like what it could mean for my family. Jimmy's words with my wife, Mr. Amato's words with me a few weeks ago, they all make me nervous that one step out of line from me, and they won't hesitate to clip me, or worse, go after my family. I can't depend on my uncle to protect me anymore. Tonight's button ceremony is proof of that.

When I overheard Mr. Amato and another associate talking the other day about opening the books, I knew it was coming. I also knew, no matter how much I've done, how much I've sacrificed for this family, I'd never be a made guy. Uncle Tony had been more than clear about that.

I may be good enough to drive around important men, good enough to collect the money and wear the blood on my hands of those who couldn't pay, but I'll never be good enough to take a place of honor among these men, simply because the blood of my father that runs in my veins is Irish.

So tonight, as I watch some of the guys who've moved up since I started working for the family, guys younger than me, greener than me, walk into the club for the ceremony, my blood begins to boil.

In the almost two years I've been running this job or the one with Felix, I've seen it with my own eyes—associates, soldiers, guys like myself who will never get their button—those guys are the first to take a hit, take the fall when things go sideways. I also know Uncle Tony is the only reason I haven't already been in their place. But with his protection all but gone, I know I have a target of sorts on my back. The next time a pawn is needed, I'll be near the top of the list, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

Nothing except walk away.

See, the funny thing about being a made man, yeah, it offers protection, a guarantee of your place among the family, but it also means the only way out is in a box. And I'll be damned if it comes to that.

Once I figure out a way to protect my wife and son, a way to make sure they'll be safe, away from whatever might happen, I'm going to do what I need to do to get out of this, away from this life.

I only pray they won't need a box for whatever is left of me.

A/N: How are we feeling? Remember those bumpy roads I've been warning you about? Yeah, we're there. I'd love to hear your thoughts and theories about what's next for them. Oh, on a side note, we've officially reached the halfway point of the story. ;)

*!IMPORTANT!*

I've decided this chapter will be the last update for this year. We have a family vacation, kids and hubby off of work and school, and just general chaos here in the Sunshine house for the next few weeks. I won't have time to devote to responding to concerns I KNOW will come up with the next few chapters, and I want to be able to do that, so I'm going to hold on to the next update until after the new year. I hope you can understand. I thought this chapter was a good place to hit pause. I could probably post next week's chapter before we leave town, but it would leave you hanging for a couple of weeks. I didn't want to do that to all of you.

Thanks for all the love you've shown this story, even though it's a rough one. Replying to each and every review isn't happening right now, but I'm making an effort to respond to questions and concerns. Please know if I didn't respond, I have read each and every one of your amazing reviews, and they all mean so much.

For up to date info, please join me in my Facebook group, Sunshine Fics. I share exclusive weekly teasers and offer you the chance to chat about how frustrated you are with this boy and Bella. ;)

Have a wonderful holiday, and enjoy the time with your family and friends. See you in 2019!

Lots of love,

Sunshine