Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Vita
This isn’t the worst I’ve ever felt, but death would be mercy.
I feel as though I’m a disembodied soul with the worst migraine ever known to man.
Whatever they drugged me with is giving me an out-of-body experience.
But before they drugged me, one of the biggest guys I’ve ever seen took a crowbar to the side of my head.
Fortunately, he didn’t use the end with the hook, or he probably would’ve gouged a chunk of my brain out.
He also didn’t apply the full force he could’ve. There’s no way I would’ve survived it.
As I come around, I do my best not to give away that I’m awake.
It’s the most reassuring feeling I’ve ever had when I spot Alejandro to my left.
He looks like absolute shit. It makes me reconsider how badly off I must be.
It’s clear somebody went to town on him.
There’s blood on his shirt and collar from a gash on his right cheek.
It looks like bruises already cover his face, and it looks like his shoulder isn’t sitting in place.
I pray it’s just the angle they tied him, and that it’s not dislocated.
I evaluate my body in more detail, beginning with wiggling my toes inside my shoes.
I’m working my way up by flexing my calves and thighs, my glutes.
I hardly think this is the time and the place to test a Kegel, so I skip that.
I bend my fingers and contract my arms. When I’m confident everything is still in one piece—albeit painfully—I respond to Alejandro’s concerned voice.
“Chiquita?”
“Daddy.”
It’s more of a grunt than a word because my throat is so sore from earlier, when one of our attackers wrapped his hand around it and squeezed until I thought my head would explode.
I do my best to keep my lips from moving as I speak barely louder than a whisper since I’m certain this room is bugged.
“Where are we?”
Hopefully, Alejandro has a clue, since I don’t know how long we’ve been out and how far we traveled. I’m not that knowledgeable of New York and New Jersey. I mostly know Manhattan and a few spots in the outer boroughs like Jackson Heights.
“I don’t know, chica.”
I allow my eyes to open a little wider, enough for me to sweep my gaze over our surroundings.
It’s difficult to tell whether we’re in a warehouse or a basement.
It’s just concrete walls and floor. There are no windows, no storage shelves or equipment.
It’s an entirely wide-open space that’s disconcerting as fuck.
The only objects—besides us—are the two chairs we’re sitting on.
There’s truly no way to know what time it is or even what part of the day or night we’re in.
It’s essentially sensory deprivation, since it’s all so silent in here except for when Alejandro and I whisper. There’s no hint of a scent, not even mustiness. I strain to hear anything that might be in the distance. It’s as though we’re in a complete void.
“How long do you think we were out?”
We continue to whisper so softly that I have to guess at some of Alejandro’s words.
“My best guess is a few hours. I wouldn’t feel this shitty if it were less than two. Soreness has set in. What hurts the most, chica?”
“My head. It’s as though my arms and legs are numb, yet I can feel how stiff they are when I try to move them.”
“Same.”
“Your shoulder? It looks dislocated?”
“No. It’s just the way they tied me.”
“What do you think they used?”
I dread his answer since it could be any number of narcotics or poisons.
“I have no idea, but we have a doctor on staff for anything that exceeds Madeline or Tía Margherita’s abilities. They can both do far more than a midwife should. They can deliver babies and perform emergency medicine, but they have limitations.”
We fall quiet for a few minutes as we both consider our surroundings.
“Do you see the camera?”
Alejandro lets his head loll to the right as though he passed out again. I do the same, except my head lolls to the left. We’re not sitting close enough to touch, but it shrinks the distance between us, even if it’s only psychological.
“What do we do, Alejandro?”
We’ve spotted the cameras that confirmed the suspicions we both naturally have. At this point, pretending to remain unconscious is pointless. If we formulate a plan before our kidnappers return, then all the better. I’m certain they won’t leave us alone for much longer now that we’re awake.
“We wait for now, chica.”
“Do you have any idea who it was?”
“No. Did you recognize anyone?”
“No, not at all. But I saw the hint of a tattoo.”
When I saw the ink protruding from one guy’s shirt, it made my blood run cold. As I look over at Alejandro, I can’t help but wonder if this is about me, and they beat the shit out of him as leverage against me. But then again, this could be entirely about him, and I’m collateral damage.
“What was it?”
“A finger over a pair of lips.”
“The omertà?”
It doesn’t surprise me that Alejandro knows the symbol for the highly guarded oath men take when they’re being made.
Plenty of movies have speculated about the promises sworn and sealed in blood.
Some have gotten pretty damn close. Others are ridiculous.
The oath varies a little from syndicate to syndicate, but it’s pretty universal for all Mafias.
“Do you think it was Camorra or ’Ndrangheta?”
I inhale deeply before I admit my suspicions. “No. My guess is Mala del Brenta.”
“Your own family? Don Piero? Your father?”
“I really don’t know. I can’t imagine it’s my father. I just can’t. He’s devoted to Piero and our branch. He’d give his life for our don without a second thought, but I’m confident the only way he’d disobey Piero is if it was my or my mother’s life over anyone else.”
“Could he have made that argument to end the assignment you’re on, and Piero’s punishing him for that?”
“That’s not entirely impossible, but it’s unlikely.”
“Why else would it be a Mala del Brenta? It’s not like they have a presence here in the U.S.”
“I know. It’s almost strictly Venetian, and there’re few branches, even if there’re several influential families. Do you think anyone knows what happened yet?”
I change the subject because I’m struggling to wrap my head around recognizing the symbol designed the way Mala del Brenta men get it. I need to think about it more, but I can’t do it out loud. I’ll grow too emotional if I do.
“They absolutely know something’s gone wrong.
We told all of them where we were going.
If nothing else, Serafina will try to call you, and when she doesn’t get through, she’ll have Carmine call me.
When I don’t answer, Salvatore will call Tío Enrique.
But before that could even happen, several alarms will have gone off.
I activated the tracker on my watch. The moment there was more than just a door dinging the body of our vehicle, an alert went to the guy who heads up our fleet of cars.
There’s always a vehicle tracker running too.
At the very least, they’ll have our last known location.
I can’t tell if there’s any signal in this building for my watch to transmit. ”
“Do you think they left anything at the scene? I’d imagine they have cleaners to get rid of the vehicle and your driver.”
“They likely do, but there’s always a chance they left something behind. These men were professionals, but their work was still sloppy. They took too long to knock us out and left blood behind. And then, one of them was careless enough for you to see a tattoo.”
“I’m sure they assume we’ll be dead before we can tell anyone our suspicions.” If I were running this mission, that’s what I would do.
“I’m sure that’s what they think too, but that’s an arrogance that’ll get them killed. You know better than most that you always assume something could go wrong, that your mark could get away, so you leave no distinguishable traces.”
“True. If it’s been a few hours, do you think we’re approaching dawn yet?”
“It’s possible. If only I could see my wrist. It surprises me that they left me with my watch and my belt. They must know one of those accessories is a tracker. They must be confident it isn’t working. I doubt they even bothered to look where it was located.”
“I can tell they took my gun. I assume they took yours. Can you still feel your knives?”
I know he carries one in each pocket. Every syndicate man carries at least one, but most carry two or more.
Getting your first knife around fourteen is a rite of passage—your first step into full initiation.
Guns are easier to take, but men aren’t thrilled at digging into another guy’s front pockets.
“Yeah. I have both. Dumbasses. They assume I can’t get to them. When they come in, I’ll start working the knots while they’re distracted talking to or beating me. I don’t want them to notice me fidgeting on camera.”
I run my hands over what I can of the ropes binding my wrists. Fucking idiots to not use zip ties. Is this the nineteenth century? Handcuffs, then zip ties have been standard for like a hundred and fifty years.
“This was a planned job, so they shouldn’t be improvising. Do you think the rope is a setup to get us to try to free ourselves?”
“I assume so, but they were still foolish enough to use it. Do you think you can work yours loose?”
“Yeah. From what I can feel, I recognize the knot.”
It might be an old-fashioned method to restrain a hostage, but I was still trained to escape various types of knots. Plus, I like shit kinky and have been bound several different ways.
“Ransom or live stream?”
Do they want our families to pay for our freedom, or will they torture our families by forcing them to watch our torture and death?
Either is a strong likelihood. I wish I knew more about our captors because even a slight hint of who they work for can help me narrow down whether this is sanctioned or rogue. Either’s possible.