17. Chapter 17
Barry Trello shifted uncomfortably on the wooden planks of the treehouse, wincing as a sharp jab of pain shot through his ribs.
He muttered a curse under his breath, clutching his side.
Vito’s punches had left bruises that throbbed every time he took a breath.
He’d always known the man was violent, but having those fists aimed at him had been a wake-up call.
It was stupid, really. All this over that meddling old bat and her granddaughter.
He’d had Evangeline under control—he’d dosed her milk, slipped sedatives into her food, and kept her drowsy and docile.
It wasn’t his fault a judge had decided to hand guardianship over to Mia Calvino. Barry had done his part.
Still, Vito had made his expectations very clear, and failure wasn’t tolerated. Which was why Barry was hiding here, crouched in a splintery, half-rotten treehouse like some ten-year-old runaway.
The neighbor’s kids didn’t use the place anymore, thank goodness.
From up here, the angle was perfect: Evangeline’s Elizabethan monstrosity of a house sprawled nearby, its lush landscaping and hedges manicured within an inch of their lives.
Barry had a clear line of sight into the backyard, kitchen windows, and several of the upstairs bedrooms. It should have been ideal.
Except… nothing was happening.
He’d hoped at first that the kid—the one in the wheelchair—might be the opportunity he needed. Wheelchairs meant weakness. They meant slower movement. If Mia was saddled with two invalids, maybe she’d make a mistake. Maybe she’d crumble.
But then he appeared.
The man. Huge, rock solid. Muscles stacked on muscles, with that look in his eyes. The kind of look that said he’d noticed Barry, even if Barry thought he was well hidden. The kind of look that made Barry’s stomach twist.
Dangerous. That’s what he was. Dangerous in a way Barry didn’t dare test.
He rubbed his ribs again, grimacing. He couldn’t take another beating, not from Vito and definitely not from a man like that.
Still, he refused to leave his post. This treehouse had become his command center.
The first day, it had been tolerable. He’d brought a thermos of coffee and a pack of crackers. When nature called, he’d simply leaned over the side and taken care of it.
The second day, he’d been smarter. He’d brought chips, a soda, and a sandwich. He’d marked the tree trunk with his urine, like some wild animal, and assured himself no one would ever climb up here to notice.
By day three, though, his nerves were fraying. He’d woken up stiff, sore, with a gnawing hunger and a full bladder. He was furious at being reduced to this indignity, hiding in a wooden shack nailed to a tree, watching shadows move through windows.
And worse—nothing. This third day, there was no activity. No one had come or gone all day. The driveway stayed empty. The curtains stayed drawn.
They were gone.
Barry chewed the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He’d dragged himself into this treehouse later than usual, but still—there should have been some movement. A curtain shifting. A car engine turning over. Something.
Instead, silence.
His only consolation was that Vito didn’t know where he was.
Vito would never imagine him up here, hunched in a tree like a squirrel.
The great Vito Calvino, Minneapolis’s new mob king, would be prowling around his ugly mansion, sending out his capos, barking orders, and never once would he think to check a neighborhood treehouse for his missing nursing home manager.
Barry almost smiled at that. Almost.
But then his ribs twinged again, and the smile twisted into a grimace. He didn’t know how he was going to fix this mess, but one thing was certain. If he didn’t deliver Evangeline soon, he’d end up buried under one of the old man’s rose bushes.