Caterina
My brother hasn’t shown his face in my suite since he chained me up and confessed to my father’s murder.
At least he allows his men to unshackle me for bathroom breaks. Not seeing Nino to reason with him or even beg for my life isn’t a good sign, though.
As his men scurry in and out of my room like rats in a maze, I recognize that they’re organizing my imminent suicide.
Two bottles of pills sit at my bedside. Xanax and Ativan. Both prescribed by different doctors but with my name printed on them. No physician in their right mind would prescribe those two benzos to the same patient, not if they hoped to keep their medical license.
I imagine Nino pleading his case to two different people.
Cat’s distraught.
She can’t get out of bed.
Barely eats.
Won’t stop crying.
She just lost the most important person in her life, and I don’t know how to help her.
If she could just relax and get some rest, she’ll be able to start feeling better.
I can’t lose her too. She’s all I’ve got left.
Due to grief, I’ve been distraught, unrested, and heartbroken. Even hysterical at times. Whatever he claimed to get his hands on these drugs was probably true, if you neglect the part where he assaulted me and retrained me to my bedframe while plotting my murder.
As one of Nino’s Russians exits, two lower-level Riccis, Carlo and Francesco Marino Jr., stroll in to finish organizing my “suicide.” The Russian was a diminutive man with black beady eyes and alabaster skin who’s been giving me the creeps since yesterday.
Serious rapey vibes. I hope the guy chokes to death in his sleep.
Every man is dressed in black today in anticipation of the funeral later this evening.
I’m missing my own father’s funeral. Nino’s lost his mind. If this isn’t already proof enough, he still hasn’t even mentioned Tony di Norelli’s sudden absence.
Nino’s so egocentric and focused on his reign that he hasn’t noticed that one of his best friends has gone missing. That alone should have fired up a thousand red flags. If only I’d have believed Connor sooner.
I don’t know why I doubted Connor or ever thought I could reason with my brother.
Frankie carries a notepad, which I can only imagine has my Goodbye World letter scribbled across it in somebody else’s writing. Probably Nino’s. I mean, who else would pen such a thing? Frankie Jr. sets the note on my desk with a frown.
Carlo, Frankie’s cousin, emerges from my closet and approaches me with a pink satin pajama set. The top features a notched collar with long sleeves, and the bottoms are full-length. Pretty glamourous for a suicide outfit.
Maybe he chose it because of the silky fabric and roomy fit. My dead corpse ought to be comfortable, after all.
I want to laugh, except I can’t find the energy.
This is my last chance to save myself—and Connor, if he’ still alive—and I need to seize the opportunity.
Think.
“I’m going to unchain you, Miss Ricci, so you can use the restroom and change into these.” Carlo sets the silk pajamas at the end of the bed, and Frankie shifts to the side to catch a better glimpse of me.
Neither of these enforcers is twenty-one, yet Nino tasked them with this morbid undertaking. Gross.
For four decades, Francesco Sr. was a dutiful bagman for the Ricci family. In a rare stroke of luck, he survived mob life, retired, and still lives in the home Frankie was raised in. As Frankie’s mom is much younger than his father, both of his parents are still alive.
Frankie and I practically grew up together.
Carlo unlocks the chains. His father was injured in the Gulf War and wears a prosthetic leg from the knee down.
Less than a year ago, his mother died of breast cancer.
The frequency illusion strikes again, although I’m beginning to believe no illusions are involved.
We’re joined by our grief, or will be shortly if I have anything to say about it.
Carlo started working for the family after his mother fell ill.
Under different circumstances, either one of these young men could’ve led very different lives.
I throw my legs over the side of the bed and sit here, rubbing my wrists. I certainly can’t outrun these men, so I’ll have to rely on my power of persuasion.
I’m still in the t-shirt and white panties I’d pulled on after sex. Nino’s way of humiliating me further for my sexual dalliance, I guess.
As I inch to the edge of the bed, my t-shirt shrugs off one shoulder. Though my plan doesn’t rely on my sex appeal, I leave my shoulder bare. It never would’ve occurred to me to use my feminine wiles to seduce if not for Connor making me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.
Still, we’ll call that plan B.
Plan A is a little more complicated. Honesty with a healthy dose of guilt, an emotion we all know quite well from our upbringing, which includes church services and parochial school. For many Italian Americans, guilt is ingrained at an early age as a way to ensure obedience.
I hate this tactic. If I live long enough to become a future leader of the organization, I promise not to make it my go-to.
“Frankie? Can I talk to you?”
He pivots from the desk and meets my eyes, however reluctantly.
As Frankie wanders over, Carlos pivots to walk away.
“No, Carlo. You too. I’d like to speak to both of you, please.”
Carlo stops and exchanges a wary glance with his cousin.
I know those looks well. Even on good days, the young men in our organization live in a state of low-level fear. Not following the boss’s orders is grounds for death, but I’m gambling with my life too.
I’m banking on Frankie and Carlo. Like me, they were raised only knowing one way of life.
They could be good guys at heart. Still, persuading them to turn their backs on everything they know and risk their lives—for me—will require a little manipulation.
So, I guess what I’m really hoping is that they were also born with a sixth sense.
And courage. Because they’re going to need large quantities.
I inhale deeply, as if I have all the time in the world, before exhaling and centering myself. “I get it. You’re terrified of Nino. But this won’t take long.” I meet the eyes of one boy, then the other. Because, really, that’s what they are. Boys.
Neither moves to get closer to me, but they don’t leave the room or demand I shut up or change into my death jammies either. This is my shot.
“For my late father, Eduardo Ricci, may I have one minute of your time?” A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow my fear.
Frankie walks over, and Carlo joins him.
I start with the obvious. “Nino’s going to kill me.”
The way they study their boots confirms that they’re well aware of why they’re in my room and what they’re doing.
I gamble on my next question. “And do you also know Nino killed my father?”
Frankie trades glances with Carlo before staring at me with wide eyes. “No, Miss Ricci. He was killed by Connor Gallagher.”
“Listen to me.” Breathe, Cat. Remain calm. “Nino killed my father because he amended his will to grant leadership of the family to me.”
Their eyebrows shoot up, and Carlo starts to shake his head.
I push on, determined not to waste my chance. “I understand it’s almost impossible to believe, but it’s true.” My gaze travels between the two men. “You know what it’s like to have only one parent in this world.”
Carlo nods, his face blanching.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Carlo.”
“Thank you. Yes, I know what it’s like, Miss Ricci.”
I can feel Carlo’s grief just as I could feel Connor’s.
Even back when I knew him as Dane Ryder, I sensed a certain sadness under all that slick banter and charm.
That sorrow resonated with me, just like Carlo’s does now.
The ache of losing a parent young stays with you.
And if I noticed Carlo’s loss, I bet he’s in tune with mine too.
I wait a beat while we maintain eye contact. “Now imagine if someone you loved took your father away too.”
Carlo rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t want to imagine that.”
“But just picture it for a second. Can you?” He hesitates, then dips his chin. “That’s what my life is right now.”
“I’m sorry for both your losses.” Carlo’s a sensitive, genuinely sympathetic man.
My heart shatters a little from putting him through this scenario, but self-preservation is a powerful motivator. “Now, imagine that Frankie killed your father—”
Frankie jerks back. “I would never!”
I flinch from my spot on the bed. I’ve never heard Frankie Jr. or Sr. raise their voices. Father and son have always shared the same quiet, mild temperament.
Carlo flexes his jaw. “Frankie would never do anything like that. He loves his uncle, and my father is a good man. Frankie would never hurt him. Or hurt me by killing him. We’re like brothers.”
Frankie pats his cousin’s shoulder before addressing me again and repeating, “I would never.”
Even though I realize I’m stoking their anger and this could blow up in my face, I continue to push. “But, Carlo, imagine if he did.”
“I love my uncle. I’d never do such a thing.” Frankie scoots closer and lowers his voice. “And you’re making me very angry by suggesting I—”
“Angry enough to kill your uncle?” This could end with another backhand to my face, but I can’t stop. I need to break them.
My throat tightens, my palms slick with sweat.
Carlo moves closer, his hands clenched. “Stop talking about Frankie like that.”
“You know me, and you know my father.” The veins on Frankie’s neck bulge. “And I’m not some kind of psychopath!”
I study each man. Their blood pressure has collectively hit the roof, their olive skin darkening with rage.
I rise up on shaky legs, my calves flush with the bed. Despite my t-shirt and underwear being the epitome of revealing and not being a tall woman, standing is a show of power. “So, neither of you can imagine a world where you,” I nod toward Frankie, “kill his father?” I motion to Carlo.
“No!”