22. Ivy
22
IVY
All the blood drains from my face.
I shouldn’t be down here—not in a mafia boss’s basement, poised at the entrance of a secret passage.
“Is that you, Catarina?” The woman’s words hold an Italian accent, the older, weathered tone gaining an annoyed edge. “I can see you standing there.”
Whatever this woman can see can’t be much because I definitely don’t possess the shorter, more rotund stature of the house manager.
Regardless, I’ve been caught.
Fuck.
“No.” I clear my throat and squeeze around the cabinet to stand at the center of the passage entrance. Light shines behind me. There’s nothing but darkness ahead. “It’s not Catarina.”
There’s a pause.
“Then who might you be, child?” The voice softens to a more welcoming tone.
I step cautiously into the shadows, trying to spot the stranger through my limited vision, the narrow chamber swallowing the light from upstairs. “I’m a guest.” I chance another slow step and another, my pulse thundering.
“What is your name?” she asks, her position in the pitch-black obscurity not seeming to change from what I guesstimate to be a few yards ahead.
“Can I be impolite and ask for yours first?” My steps shrink, each forward momentum growing smaller.
Knowledge might not be power in this instance.
The passage walls disappear and I move to stand before a sea of inky black—the opening of what I assume is another room. A tiny red light glows from my left, the shred of illumination casting the slightest sinister hue across the void.
“You are fearful?” The woman’s voice carries from straight ahead. Still no movement. No sense of an impending attack.
A breath of a laugh escapes me. “It isn’t often that I go snooping through the houses of powerful men.”
She makes a slight hum of understanding.
“Not that I was snooping,” I clarify. “I just thought this was Catarina’s room because I’ve seen her carrying a food tray in here. But tonight I found out she has her own cottage somewhere else on the property and I…” The beat of silence that follows wraps its cold hands around me and digs in clawed nails.
“I don’t think you were meant to pay attention to her coming down here, my child,” the woman confirms.
There’s a rustle of noise that puts me on edge, then a tiny light flicks on, the illumination no brighter than a child’s night lamp.
I take in the room with quickly escalating panic—the metal bars of a prison cell, the older woman trapped inside.
“My name is Adena Costa.” She meets my eyes, her face lined with wrinkles, her long grey hair loose around her shoulders, her body covered in a cheap sweatsuit. “I am the sister to the powerful man you fear.”
Oh, holy mother of fuck.
I take a retreating step, the instinct to run finally kicking in.
“Please don’t go.” She flicks off the light, plunging the room back into darkness. “There are cameras but I’m led to believe they are rarely monitored anymore.”
Anymore? As in, she’s been here so long they’ve stopped bothering to watch?
This isn’t good. This really isn’t good.
I try to make out the bars in the darkness, that slight red glow giving me the faintest outline. “How long have you been down here?”
“Too long to continue keeping track.”
Is that days, weeks, months?
“Each night bleeds into the next,” she continues. “But if I were to guess, I’d say I’d be approaching my two-year anniversary of imprisonment.”
I attempt to measure my exhale, yet shock has it leaving me in a rapid heave.
“I assume you’re here under more hospitable circumstances,” she muses.
I open my mouth to answer but words fail me.
I need to leave. This is next-level insider information. The type that will get me buried in a shallow grave.
I take another retreating step.
“Please don’t go,” she begs. “My son is the only one who visits and those occasions don’t happen often enough.”
“Which son?” I croak.
“Salvatore. Do you know him?”
Oh, shitty. Shit. Shit.
Bile scrambles up my throat. “Yes.”
She’s quiet a moment. Long enough for me to swallow in a vain attempt to relieve my tightening windpipe.
“Is he the reason you’re a guest here?” she asks.
I swallow harder. “Yes.”
“Well then, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Is he upstairs?”
“No.” I shake my head in the darkness, wishing the opposite were true.
If Salvatore were here I wouldn’t have been snooping. Nope. No way in hell. My dumb ass would’ve been completely occupied taunting that stunning oxygen thief.
“He was distracted last time he visited,” she continues as if to herself. “Now I think I understand why.”
She’s blaming me? “Um, no, I definitely don’t have any type of distracting effect on your son.”
Well, not apart from the incessant flirtation, but at this point I think that’s a personality flaw.
She chuckles. “You don’t like my son?”
Great. Now I have to navigate a delightful minefield.
I can either praise the obnoxiously annoying Satan wannabe or insult him to what seems to be his sweet, loving mother.
She chuckles again, this time more wholesome and hearty. “You don’t need to answer that. Sometimes that boy is someone only a mother can love.”
I rub my knuckles against my sternum, trying to alleviate the tightness in my chest. “I’m not going to argue with you on that.”
“Will you tell me how you two met?”
I’m so fucking dumb.
Like, I’m in the final quarter of the game, having already secured a Guinness record for highest points scored in the history of stupid, then I decide to shoot a three-pointer from the parking lot.
Not only do I remain in the darkness chatting with Salvatore’s mom for hours, but my moronic ass does exactly as she requests and spills the tea on how me and her son met at Smoke & Mirrors. I tell her he took me for a French martini drinker because they are—and I quote— sophisticated, embodied elegance, and are far more intoxicating than a Bay Breeze .
I mention how he swooped in to rescue me from a chauvinist. I even allude to our first kiss.
And the only reason for the mind melt is that it’s just really nice to have someone to talk to. Chatting with Olivia on the phone hasn’t been enough. I’ve craved being in the same space as someone—having the presence of company—especially a woman who isn’t concerned about blurring the lines between staff and guest like Catarina.
The densest part about the whole situation is that in an attempt to hide my family history and any connection to the cartel, I may have given our story a sprinkle of fiction and a fucking romantic arc.
Now, I’m pretty sure she’s down in her prison cell contemplating whether or not I’ll be a future mother to her grandchildren, which is going to be fun to explain to Salvatore if she goes back on our promise not to tell anyone about my basement discovery.
I don’t sleep much.
I spend the rest of the night replaying my idiocy and realizing how one-sided the conversation had been. Talking to Lorenzo’s sister had been easy. It didn’t help that it was dark, and she had an accent that reminded me of my mother. It made it way too easy to pretend I was a child again. That I had somehow travelled back in time to a place where the woman who gave birth to me was hanging off my every word and devoted to nothing but my well-being.
“Fucking moron,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that, dolcezza ?” Catarina asks from the kitchen as she prepares a lunch tray.
“Nothing.” I stab at the Greek salad she made me and skewer a piece of feta.
“Okay…” She eyes me with concern and grabs her tray filled with the usual water bottle, main meal, juice, and fruit. “I’m going to go eat my lunch. I’ll be back in a little while.”
I turn my attention to my food, unsure if I can hide the accusatory bullshit expression. “Why can’t you just eat with me?”
“It’s Lorenzo’s preference.” She answers without pause—a rehearsed response.
I shove the feta in my mouth before I think better of calling her out on the lie.
She’s already in the basement, the door having clicked shut behind her when I pull my cell from my slightly loose-fitting jeans to text Salvatore.
Ivy
Tell me about your parents. What are they like?
I already know his father is dead. I found that info on the internet after I’d heard whispers that Lorenzo, Remy, and Salvatore had settled in Baltimore. But I can’t recall reading anything substantial about his mother apart from her director position in the fashion label they used to own.
It isn’t until midafternoon that I get a reply?—
Salvatore
A quick Google search would tell you my father is dead. And I don’t speak to my mother often. Why?
Ivy
Just curious. I remember your brother calling you a momma’s boy and I keep thinking about it.
Salvatore
Although I appreciate being in your thoughts, this isn’t a topic to gain ammunition to taunt me with. Find something else to fixate on.
Ivy
Okay, Sally, warning noted.
Salvatore
Thanks, my little Fleshlight.
I guffaw, the shocked, aghast sound sputtering from my lips.
My little Fleshlight?
Ivy
If you ever call me that again it’s going to be my thirteenth reason.
Salvatore
So you’d prefer not to have it printed on our wedding invitations?
Ivy
You can shove any thoughts of a wedding where the sun doesn’t shine. And if you’re unfamiliar with where I’m referring, I’m happy to give you a demonstration.
Salvatore
That sounds fun. Why don’t you send me some pics to get the party started?
I glower, yet I can’t help the humor-filled curve that tilts my lips.
He wants pics? Fine, I’ll give him pics.
I spend the rest of the afternoon texting random images of things I find around the house. Like the fridge door, the faucet in my private bathroom, an up-close action shot of an ant I spot trekking along the kitchen tile, and also an artful snap of the cutlery drawer.
He doesn’t respond to the thirty-plus texts, but each time I hit send I imagine him smirking through thinly veiled annoyance.
It’s enough to keep me distracted until night falls when Catarina returns to her cottage. But as soon as the front door closes, I find myself fighting the need to descend the stairs to the basement to learn more about Adena.
Twenty-seven minutes is all it takes to lose the battle.
“Why were you imprisoned?” I ask in greeting, making myself at home on the floor at the end of the passage, my back against the wall, my face tilted toward the inky black.
It’s not like I can’t unlearn the knowledge of her captivity, so I might as well understand the details of it.
“Has my son not told you?” Her accent is thicker than before, more harshly cultivated from what I assume is exhaustion after I kept her awake last night.
“We’re not really at the let’s-talk-about-my-imprisoned-mother stage.” I cuddle my thighs to my chest, resting my chin against my knees. “And when I texted him today, I didn’t want to cause issues by hinting at my newfound knowledge.”
“Good. I spent the day worrying about your safety if you told someone. Do you have any idea when he will return?”
“No.” I also don’t understand why she’s avoided my question.
“Well, if you plan to visit again, you should know the secure metal door at the start of the passage is meant to be kept closed. Catarina has grown lax in her duties and keeps leaving it open. So if you find yourself locked out, the code is nine-five-six-six. Can you remember that?”
Nine-five-six-six .
Nine-five-six-six .
“Yes.” I commit the digits to memory and remain quiet, hoping the break in conversation will remind Adena of what I asked, but the silence stretches.
I guess she doesn’t want to talk about her imprisonment. Maybe she no longer wants to talk at all.
Disappointment crawls under my skin.
Today had felt lighter knowing I had the option of company tonight. The thing is, I don’t usually let down my guard. It’s the familiarity of a maternal figure that has dismantled those walls with relative ease. Or maybe it’s the perfect storm of isolation, trauma, and the way I miss my mom. But I guess we also have a lot in common given the whole being-held-captive-by-family-members thing.
Finally, she sighs. “You’re waiting for me to tell you why I’m here, aren’t you?”
A sad smile tugs at my lips. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s a long story that is best not to share, but the main contributing factor is that my brother turned my children against me.” Emotion bleeds through the darkness making me yearn to give her a hug. “I tried my best and did everything I could to protect them. But it wasn’t enough. Eventually, they all banded together to lock me up.”
“Even Salvatore?”
“Even Salvatore. But he’s since seen the error of his ways. He’s trying to get me out.”
I sit straighter. “He can’t just open the cell door?”
“That would risk his position in the family, and I wouldn’t want him to do that. These things take time.”
Almost two years’ worth?
I hug my legs tighter to my chest. “Is there anything I can do?”
I want to retract the question as soon as it’s out. To snatch the words one by one and shove them back down my throat.
“You’re such a sweet, young thing,” she murmurs. “But no, there’s nothing you can do. Apart from keep me company and continue to tell me about yourself. How about starting with your family?”