Chapter 30
30
CELIA
V incent returned with a man I hadn’t seen before, shorter, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of face you’d expect to see coaching Little League, not working for my father. He introduced himself as “John” with an almost apologetic smile.
“Your father sends his regrets,” Vincent said, clearly enjoying himself. “He’s occupied with other matters at the moment.”
I forced a laugh, though it made my split lip sting. “Of course he is. When has Mal Carmichael ever bothered to handle his own dirty work?”
I thought of reminding Vincent that was his sole function to my father. He did the dirty work, and my father would probably even have him wipe his ass if he could.
But I kept my mouth shut. I always admired the way characters in movies mouth off in the face of pain, but I wasn’t an actor. I wasn’t walking off set when this was over for the makeup department to sponge off my marks and scars.
John set down a black duffel bag with careful precision. “We’re going to have a conversation about Gabriel Caruso and his brothers. About what they’re planning.”
Oh my god. John was the torture specialist. I watched him in growing horror as he stepped outside, then returned, dragging a hose with him.
Vincent grabbed my hair, yanking my head back. My eyes watered at the painful burning in my scalp.
I needed my hair; I put it through enough by bleaching it. Vincent was probably pulling it out in handfuls.
“No games, Celia,” Vincent told me sternly. “Your father knows the other families are plotting against him. I don’t know why the hell they would back Caruso and not our family.”
He was slightly wild eyed.
He was afraid, too. My father’s paranoia must have infected his men.
“Well?” He shook my head, and sharp pain twinged through my neck. “Who’s helping Caruso? Why?”
“Why? Well. Gabriel can be very charming.”
Vincent snarled in disgust—and fear, I realized—and let go of me. His fingers snagged a few more hairs on his way out of my hair, and I bit my lower lip, fresh tears stinging my eyes.
John gave me a sympathetic look. “And we haven’t even gotten started yet. You should tell them what they want to know.”
“They’re not going to believe me anyway,” I said.
“They will,” John said. “You’ll tell us anything we want to know to make this stop. Have you ever drowned before, Celia?”
“No.”
“It’s a singularly unpleasant sensation.”
So was this conversation.
John continued to move slowly, as if he took great care in his work. The way he was setting up reminded me of a dental hygienist preparing for a new patient, since he looked so harmless. He was setting up an inclined board now.
“Do you really think Gabriel would tell me anything important?” I didn’t have to fake the edge of terror and dread bleeding into my voice. “He doesn’t love me. I’m nothing but a trophy wife.”
Vincent snorted, but didn’t say anything. Clearly, he had the same jokes as Royal and my father did.
“I don’t believe that,” John said. “The way Gabriel watches you suggests that he does indeed have feelings for you. So, I believe he might well have let you into his plans.”
Well, fuck.
“He’s just a good actor. He took me in too, John.”
“Can we shut her up?” Vincent demanded.
“Help me get her onto the board,” John said.
Vincent cut the zip ties that bound me to the chair. I knew it was hopeless, but I still dove for freedom the second I felt the last zip tie give.
Vincent hit me, and I staggered back, pain exploding down the side of my face. Two more of their men exploded into the room at Vincent’s shout, blocking the door.
One of them grabbed me, his hands digging into my skin. Vincent grabbed me, too, the two of them dragging me forward.
“That’s not necessary,” John chided. “She’s just a girl, Vincent.”
They forced me toward the inclined board, its surface already slick with water from the hose. My bare feet slipped on the wet concrete as I fought them.
I managed to drive my elbow back into Vincent’s solar plexus. He doubled over with a satisfying grunt. When he straightened, blood was streaming from his nose where my head had caught him. His eyes had gone cold with fury.
“You’ll regret that,” he promised quietly.
John just watched, looking almost sad, as they wrestled me onto the board.
I’m fucking sad too , John .
The board was cold against my back, even through my clothes. They pulled my arms above my head, securing them with thick straps that dug into my flesh. More straps went across my legs, my waist, and my chest, each one cinched brutally tight.
My heart was already hammering against my ribs when they placed the cloth over my face. Vincent’s smirk face leaned over me for one moment, as the cloth draped over my mouth and throat. He pulled it up slowly, blocking out their faces but not the light that shone through slightly. Being unable to see made me even more panicky.
The damp fabric clung to my nose and mouth as I breathed. Don’t panic . Don’t panic . I’d known this was coming. I could handle it.
I would fight them until I broke, and when I did, I would call out desperate lies, and they would believe the lies I told them.
The cloth sealed itself to my face as water poured through it, filling my nose and my mouth. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. I was dying.
My body convulsed against the restraints.
As dark spots were blooming behind my eyes, they pulled the cloth away. I turned my head to the side, coughing and gasping.
Vincent leaned in close, his breath hot on my wet face. “Who is Caruso working with?”
I dragged in a ragged breath . “ I’m Caruso. And you can go to hell.”
The sound of the hose leaking steadily onto the floor seemed impossibly loud in the silence that followed.
John stepped forward, adjusting the cloth with careful precision. “This can stop whenever you want it to, Celia. No one would blame you for talking. It’s only natural to want the pain to end.”
The cloth came down again. This time I knew what to expect, but it didn’t help. Water filled my world, pressing in on all sides. My lungs were burning, muscles straining against the straps as my body fought for air.
They lifted the cloth again. I had barely managed one desperate breath before it came down once more.
When it was gone again, John said with a soft, paternal sigh, “You decide when this ends, Celia.”
I was still gasping for breath, but I must have looked too defiant, because Vincent put his hand on my forehead and pushed me down again.
And again.
And again.
By the sixth time, I couldn’t remember why I was fighting. I didn’t remember my own name or my own plan through the panic. I would’ve said anything when they finally pulled the cloth away.
Water ran from my nose and my mouth, soaking my shirt. I could hear my own harsh gasps echo off the metal walls. My throat felt raw, and I couldn’t stop shaking.
“Wait,” I choked out. The word scraped past my abused vocal cords. “Please.”
Vincent leaned close, just before I retched violently, my body trying to expel water that felt like it had reached my very core. He leapt back with a look of disgust on his face. The straps cut into my flesh as I heaved.
John’s hand touched my shoulder, steadying me. The gentle gesture was somehow worse than Vincent’s brutality. “Ready to talk?”
I nodded weakly, letting my head fall back against the board. Water trickled from my hair down my neck.
It was time to tell them exactly what we wanted them to hear.
Through my haze, I could barely hold onto what was true and what was a lie, what I was supposed to say and what I wasn’t.
“One more time,” Vincent suggested, snapping the damp cloth between his hands.
“Kara’s family,” I gasped. “They’re working with Gabriel.”
“Is that so?”
It was my father’s voice. I hadn’t registered his presence; there had been nothing for me but the sensation of drowning, the desperate struggle for breath afterward.
I turned toward him, and he looked me over with disgust written over his face.
“You are so ugly right now,” he told me. “Gabriel wouldn’t want you back. Not when you betrayed him. Not when you look like this.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” I said, every word burning in my throat.
He studied me. “I’m not sure I believe my daughter, John. Let’s try it one more time.”
Fuck . He was a monster, but I had to admit, he knew me well. He knew what I looked like when I was trying to squirm out of my punishments, out of my tortures.
“Please,” I whispered, already knowing it wouldn’t matter.
But the cloth went over my face again.
I was drowning so long that I thought they’d decided to kill me this way.
Finally, the cloth was lifted off my face. I was drowning in my own tears and snot and desperation now, and my father looked at me with such disgust.
“I lost my son yesterday, Celia. I don’t really care if I lose my daughter today.”
“There’s more,” I wept, shaking my head desperately.
They should believe I had broken.
I felt broken.
If I hadn’t had a lie planned to tell them, I might have told them the truth. Even now, I was afraid I’d accidentally spill more than I intended.
“They want to make sure you’re alone.” My voice came out broken. “So, they’re going to strike at the other families and make it look like it’s you.”