Chapter 25
Don thought it was probably close to dawn based on the fact that the warehouse was no longer pitch-black inside. His wrists were raw from the rope that Frankie’s goons had knotted around them, and his shoulders ached from being tied to a chair with his arms pinned behind his back. He was struggling not to gag on the piece of cloth they’d tied in his mouth, which was now soaked in his own blood from the cut inside his cheek.
But none of that could compare to the stench. It reeked of tuna and sardines and the sweat of men. It was the smell of his father’s hands and hair. A smell that had permeated their home and tainted every good memory Don had of his childhood, few as they were. He’d promised himself that nothing in his life would ever smell like this again. But he was sure that the stench hung heavy on him now, like a shroud.
Based on the state of the warehouse, nothing had been stored here in at least a few weeks, but the smell lingered like the ghost of a rotten corpse. Frankie had insured Don could only breathe through his nose, thanks to the gag in his mouth. Don had to hand it to him. Frankie Martino was a thug who used his rough charm and his muscle to get what he wanted. Smarts weren’t exactly the lug’s strong suit. In spite of that, Frankie had found the worst place on God’s green earth to stick Don. And he hadn’t been kidding about the fishing season. Usually at this time of year, this warehouse would’ve been filled with boxes and workers packing fish day and night.
Based on the pattern of the light peeking through the doorjamb, Don didn’t think he’d been here over forty-eight hours. But he was already nearing his breaking point. The only thing keeping him from losing it was the soft pressure of the lucky penny in his pocket, pushing into his thigh. Ha. Was Frankie and everything that had happened to him since he moved to New York lucky? He could feel the edge of the coin. It must’ve moved around in his scuffle with the goons. Lucky. But he’d keep that penny until his last breath. Because it made him think of Arlene. Of their date last night. Or the night before? He didn’t know anymore. What must she have thought when he hadn’t shown up to set the next day? Probably that it confirmed every bad thought she’d ever had about him. He couldn’t blame her really. If the shoe was on the other foot, he would’ve thought the same thing.
No one was coming to rescue him. Eddie wouldn’t know where to start—and the studio, well, they wouldn’t want to get their hands dirty. Not when he hadn’t even released a picture yet. The only person who had a chance of figuring out where he was would’ve been Arlene. He prayed that someone had seen the message he’d tried to leave, found his tie, and had enough sense to get it to Lena.
It had seemed like she was willing to take a leap with him. To be with him in spite of the risk to her career—even if he had to stay her dirty little secret until the picture was finished. He’d tried to tell her how much he cared for her, how he wanted to protect her. He’d needed to show her he was serious. That he wasn’t going to abandon her again. But she’d looked stunned. Confused. Not exactly the reaction he’d hoped for.
In the hours he’d sat here alone in the dark, he started to wonder if he’d miscalculated. Maybe that wasn’t what she wanted. Maybe she was just having some fun while they made this picture. Maybe she didn’t want him at all. Not in the way he wanted her to. What if they finished the picture and she insisted he stay her secret? Or worse, wanted to call things off entirely? Because she could do better than him and she knew it.
He’d fought so hard to shake off his father’s shame, his disgust. To rid himself of every reminder that he wasn’t good enough. The last step had been freeing himself from Frankie’s grasp. But it occurred to him in this moment, tied to a chair and inhaling the fetid stench of fish and dock water, that he’d been fooling himself. He hadn’t left this behind. Here he was, drenched in it. He could hear his father now. See what you’ve done—got yourself in with the wrong sort because you’re too weak for a real man’s honest day of work. I wouldn’t come for you if I had the chance. I hope you rot there.
An angry tear trailed down his face, and he winced as the salt made contact with his split lip, his latest trophy from one of Frankie’s henchmen. Don had only deluded himself into believing he’d escaped his father’s cruelty. Trading one bully for another, Frankie Martino for Michael Lazzarini. He could change his last name, he could slick his hair, and dance on the world’s biggest stages. But he’d always be Donald Lazzarini, the son of a bitter cannery worker and the meek woman he’d kept under his thumb. Arlene had been the answer once. The Morgan household was the only place where he could truly be himself—and be loved for it. But even Arlene wouldn’t claim him as her own. Not to the world. Because aligning herself with Don Lamont was too great a risk for her. For anyone.
No, no one would come. Which meant he had a choice to make—to die here, surrounded by the stink of his father’s memory, or to let Frankie have what he wanted and eke out his days in thrall to a tyrant. Either way, Don’s soul would never be his own again.