Kidnapped by the Driver

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Let me start by saying I’m not proud of what I’ve done.

That’s neither here nor there, but I felt like I should get it out there before I start. It’ll be easy to dismiss me as a cold, hard bitch who deserves every bad thing that happens to her. And maybe that’s not wrong. But all the same, I think it’s important to say.

I didn’t intend to marry a mobster. I wasn’t born into it, wasn’t raised in it — unlike a lot of women who end up in my shoes, it was a choice I made, somewhere along the line. I don’t remember the exact moment, the exact realization, but at some point I obviously made a choice. Maybe I should have made a different one.

The thing about living a life of crime is that eventually, looking over your shoulder just becomes second nature. Except for the occasional scare, you don’t really spend a lot of time worrying about getting caught. You’re cautious, always, like when you’re speeding down the highway and keeping an eye out for the flashing lights, but it’s not some constant sense of foreboding or anything like that. There’s no point in worrying about it anyway. It’s true what they say, about how you never hear the bullet with your name on it.

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