Hide and Speak (Bennetti Boys #3)

Prologue

Being kidnapped blows.

I had plans today—solid plans.

It’s summer, and I should be at the park with my cousin, hitting on the junior high girls who rollerblade around in shorts that leave little to the imagination.

But no. Thanks to Marco and his complete inability to run, here I am.

No clue why I'm surprised by this.

The last time I chased him down, it was embarrassingly easy. He’s two years older, taller, and supposedly stronger, but his speed rivals a buffering dial-up connection on its best day. So now I’m sitting here, tied to a chair, because these geniuses thought I was Marco, and I didn’t correct them.

Better me than him.

Marco would’ve folded five minutes in and spilling family secrets all for the low, low price of a Capri Sun and a participation trophy.

Me? I have standards. And a backbone. My idiot cousin, lacking even a fraction of our family's survival instincts, caused a preventable hostage situation, and I'm stuck watching it unfold.

And when I get out of here? That nose I broke last year?

Oh, it’s due for a follow-up appointment.

Because thanks to Marco’s inability to run—or, let’s be honest, function as a useful human being—I’m missing out on bubblegum-sharing, swing-set-sitting, Cali McAllister time.

Cali McAllister, whose white shorts are beyond short, and whose heart-patterned underwear are practically a public service announcement with how well you see them through those infamous white shorts.

Justice will be served. And by justice, I mean Marco’s face meeting my fist.

The basement air is damp and reeks of mildew.

It’s cold, but I refuse to shiver—gotta keep up appearances.

They twisted my arms behind me, binding them tightly enough to make my shoulders burn worse than when Marco hog-tied me after watching Uncle Tony.

Only instead of the real bullets Uncle Tony likely used, Marco opted for Nerf bullets.

Didn’t matter. Once I was loose, I chased him down and broke his nose. Best day ever.

Doubt I’ll write this one up as the same.

Adjusting to the darkness takes time, and every wiggle in these ropes makes me hate Marco’s cement feet a little more.

The ropes bite into my wrists, the rough fibers grinding against my skin until I feel the warm trickle of blood dripping down my fingers.

Great. That’ll definitely ruin my chances with the girls this summer.

"Hey ladies, check out my abduction scars"—yeah, real smooth.

Everything hurts, but I’m not about to let it show.

Uncle Tony drilled it into us—Bennetti boys don’t break.

No fear. No weakness. Doesn’t matter if they’re holding a gun to your head or threatening to cut off your fingers, you hold your ground.

Our family isn’t just powerful; we own this city.

The mayor, police chief—hell, half of New York’s top brass are on Uncle Tony’s payroll.

They look the other way, and they’re well compensated for their selective blindness.

The biggest lesson drilled into us since we could talk? Don’t do it.

Bennetti boys always notice more than we admit. We collect details—tuck them into the corners of our minds until the perfect moment to use them. Just like the guy I saw Uncle Tony haul out of his basement one day. Trust me, he wasn’t napping.

Words get you favors, words cash in favors. Words are worth more than cash. Words can also save your life—if you know how to use them.

“Tell me, ragazzo,” says one of the goons ruining my summer.

He’s about Uncle Tony’s age, with slicked-back gray hair, dead fish eyes, and teeth yellower than my morning piss.

A cigarette dangles from his cracked lips as he paces back and forth, flicking a Zippo lighter open and shut, the flame dancing for a second before disappearing with a metallic clank. I focus on the sound. Anything but him.

When he finally lights up, he takes a long drag, blowing smoke right in my face. My insides twitch. A cigarette would hit the spot right now, but asking for one would mean talking. And, as we’ve established, that’s a no-go in these situations.

He crouches down, his face too close for comfort. His breath? A mix of cigarettes and something that crawled in there and died. Ever heard of a toothbrush, dude? Clearly not.

“Where is your Papa hiding his shipments?”

I stare straight ahead, silent. My heart might pound harder than Marco’s drum set—an unfortunate Christmas gift from Uncle Tony—but they don’t need to know that. I won’t make a sound.

They’ve already ripped my favorite navy blue polo, the one Mama just bought me.

Bruises bloom across my torso and arms, dark and spreading in angry, uneven patches.

Sure, my brothers and I spar and take boxing lessons, but let’s be real—taking a fist to the gut from a full-grown man is a little different from scrapping with my lanky twin brother, Dom.

No matter how many punches, kicks, and even the occasional slap from their meat hooks, I stay quiet.

Tears sneak out, but I don’t acknowledge them.

The fat one in the corner, the one who threw the hardest punches, cracks open a beer, gulping it down while watching me with disinterest. I can still feel the phantom pain from his last hit—probably bruised my kidneys. Pissing blood tomorrow should be fun.

Assuming I even see tomorrow.

The old man sighs, ashing his cigarette onto the floor. “You’re stubborn. That’s not good for your health.”

Neither is smoking, but I keep that one to myself.

I don’t talk. Not to these idiots.

It’s not about loyalty.

It’s about survival.

Because there’s one fundamental truth about the Bennetti family that no one ever says out loud: you can survive a lot of things. You can survive a few broken bones. A few bruises. A night in a freezing, piss-scented basement.

But you won’t survive betraying the family.

And I don’t plan on dying today.

These geniuses think I’m Marco—the golden boy, son of Tony, heir to the Cosa Nostra.

When they pulled up in their creeper van and asked which one of us was Marco, I didn’t hesitate.

If Marco opened his mouth—and he would, because the moron never shuts up—he’d be the one getting shoved into the back, and he wouldn’t last ten minutes.

His bones crack with sharp, brittle precision, and his reputation for never shutting up is practically legendary at this point.

So I did what any good cousin would do.

“I am Marco,” I said. Simple. Effective. Idiotic.

Next thing I knew, someone tossed me into the back of a van that smelled of vomit, pee, and wet dog.

If they figure out I’m not Marco, they’ll come back for him—or worse, my family. Yeah, not happening. They’re too dumb to even have a photo to compare.

So not only am I spending a perfectly good summer day tied to a chair in a damp basement, but I’m dealing with idiots.

I might be thirteen, but growing up a Bennetti and hanging around my cousin Marco has made me more aware than most kids my age—though Marco missed the memo.

A sharp right hook slams into my ribs, sending my insides clattering around with the chaotic rhythm of a dryer full of loose change.

I swallow down the coppery tang of blood and mentally note to ask Alex to hit me a few times next time we spar.

Gotta build up my pain tolerance because damn, that one stung.

The Fat One—every kidnapping crew has one—pushes off the wall, sauntering over. A single bulb swings above me, flickering. It’s the scene straight out of one of those B-rated mob movies, except this one sucks, and I’m the unwilling star.

Piss Teeth takes another drag on his cigarette, blowing smoke in my face. “Thought Tony’s kid never shut the fuck up.” His teeth are an insult to dental hygiene.

“The boy will talk,” Fat One says, chucking his empty beer bottle against the wall.

Glass explodes, brown shards skittering across the floor, beer fizzing in a slow, pathetic pool.

His meaty hands yank at what’s left of my shirt while he pulls out a switchblade.

Idiot flips it open way too close to his hairy nostrils. Seriously, dude, trim that jungle.

The cool metal glides down my cheek, and I tell myself don’t flinch, don’t flinch, don’t flinch.

I don’t.

A sharp twist of the blade nicks my skin, and warmth dribbles down my face. Great. I appreciate my face. The girls enjoy my face. And the last thing I need is my twin brother looking better than me.

“Gonna tell us where the shipments are?” Fat One drags the blade across my ribs, right over the spot he kicked earlier. The crackling sound still echoes in my head. He slices deep, slow, and I feel warmth seep down my side. Not a fatal stab. Yet.

My brain drifts, latching onto details that don’t matter but do. The stains on the wall are green like puke, like zombie flesh, like the goo you blow out of your nose when you’re sick. Brown like Lola’s dog crap. Gold like my brother’s ridiculous bumblebee bike.

“Tony’s kid is fucked up,” Piss Teeth mutters, shoving the cigarette against my skin. Burning flesh smells like a whole new kind of hell. I lock my jaw, focus on the wall. Green moss, green kelp, green scabs. Anything but the fire searing into my chest.

Time blurs. They leave. They come back. They hit me, ask questions, leave again. I stop keeping track. Hunger gnaws at me. Thirst burns my throat. But I wait.

Because no matter how many punches they throw, they won’t get a damn word out of me.

Then footsteps echo outside the door. Voices. A man crying—no, sniveling louder than a toddler lost in a grocery store—then a loud crack before the metal door swings open. Fat One crumpled onto the floor, crimson pooling from a neat hole in his forehead.

Red like stop signs. Red like Nonna's marinara.

A man in a three-piece suit steps over the body, pausing in front of me. I know him. I’ve seen him at Uncle Tony’s house, but he’s not family.