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“How would you do that?” Dante asks, throwing his hands into the air. “This isn’t Rambo. You’re not going to go on a one-man killing spree.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Papa rolls his eyes. “You’re not going to do that. I’m not leaving you alone.”
“You’re seriously considering going after her?” Dante folds his arms, and I don’t think we have ever had the balls to look at our father the way he is now. Like he’s wondering about his sanity. “Papa. You know this is wrong.”
“She’s family now, which means we get her back,” Papa decides. The tightness in my chest lessens slightly. I wasn’t sure until now whether I had him on my side. It’s one thing to feel sorry for me and be concerned for Emilia, but putting effort into bringing her home is another.
Dante backs away from us, hands in the air. “I’m through. Clearly, I’m the only person around here who gives a shit about what actually matters. Figure this out for yourselves. I’m going to bed since something tells me I’ll need to be up bright and early to handle family business while you’re distracted.” With one last look of utter disgust, Dante marches from the room, slamming the door hard enough to shake the walls.
“He’ll come around,” Papa assures me, but I don’t care. My brother is the least of my concerns now.
“I’m going to make some calls,” Papa decides. “I’ll get Craig on this, as well. You’ll have him out there watching for her. We’ll find her.”
“I need to do something,” I plead. I’m going to explode before much longer. We’ve wasted enough time already. Every passing second marks a second she could be in pain, scared, and needing me.
My father eyes me, his brows knitting together. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen, get yourself something to eat, and have some coffee. You’re going to need your strength. She’s going to need you to be strong.”
No. Not now. Not when she’s suffering. I drop into the nearest chair, prepared to sit up all night if it comes to that.
He sighs and shakes his head like a worried father, placing his first call. “Rocco Santoro,” he barks into the phone. “We need all eyes on Vitali’s crew. He’s picked up something belonging to us, and we’re looking to get it back.”
19
EMILIA
Until now, I’ve never known the meaning of humiliation. I keep my gaze lowered to the floor, focused on keeping my balance as I empty my bladder into a bucket. Someone’s watching, I’m sure. This is probably the most entertainment they’ll receive. Disgusting pigs.
I won’t break down. I can stand a lot worse than this, even if I’m wracked with hunger, and my feet are practically numb from the cold. They haven’t given me a blanket, nothing to keep warm. My teeth chatter before I can stop it, and I make it a point to tighten my jaw to maintain my composure.
It’s clearly morning now, and what little I can see of the outside world tells me it’s a gray, dreary day. Maybe it’ll snow. It feels cold enough for it, but then I’m practically naked, locked in this dirty, grimy room.
I can’t figure out what it was used for. Maybe it’s a cell, and that’s it. Maybe there are other people down here, locked away in their own prisons. I wonder if they’re given water and food.
I haven’t gotten any of either.
Luca has to be going crazy. I need to stay strong for him. They’re trying to torture me into… what? Turning on the family? Granted, nobody has been in here to see me since that first visit when I regained consciousness, but I can only imagine that’s the endgame. Either that, or I’m a pawn. It could be as simple as that, a means of hurting Luca and the rest of the family by holding me as bait.
In other words, I’m a liability when all I wanted was to be accepted by the Santoros. The idea makes me curl up tighter than ever on the bed, drawing my knees close to my chest and wrapping my arms around them.
I’ve never been cold like this. My head still aches, too, though at least the blood stopped flowing. There’s a stain on the mattress thanks to the cut to my scalp, but there were already so many stains. Mine is just one more of them.
How can they find me here? Will they even know where to begin? I close my eyes and shudder, gritting my teeth in a desperate fight to hold myself together. So cold. So hungry.
To think, only yesterday, I was in that cozy café, with its little fireplace along the back wall and pleasant conversation all around us, eating that delicious breakfast, gazing at the man I love. It’s amazing how life can turn on a dime. What I wouldn’t give for some of that French toast now.
I’m on my way to what will be a beautiful dream about that meal and the happiness I felt yesterday when the lock clicks. My eyes snap open, and my breath catches. I don’t know whether to be afraid of what comes next or be irritated at being interrupted. I was about to escape, at least in my head.
The door opens slowly, but I don’t move. I’d rather find out first who I’m dealing with. Immediately, I catch a faint whiff of cologne. It almost reminds me of Luca’s—musky, spicy—a far cry from the cheap shit my kidnappers wore. Right now, I would still take that over the lingering odor of piss that’s filled the air ever since I first had to relieve myself last night.
My visitor clicks their tongue, standing at my back. “Such a shame. I’ll bet he would have loved seeing you in this.” Another tongue click.
“He’s going to see me in it,” I murmur, still facing the wall. Every cell in my body is keenly attuned to him, his presence, his deep voice, and the mock mourning in it. That’s all any of this is. A mockery.
“Will he? Well, you might be right,” he allows. “The question is, will you still be alive when he does? That’s up to you, Detective Washington.”
I don’t have time to register surprise when he corrects himself. “Oh, forgive me. I forgot. You resigned, didn’t you?” He’s around half a second from laughing, the smug prick.
