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Celia rubbed his back but he pulled away from her as Tess huffed again. “Do you have something you wanna say, Tess?” Carmine asked, standing. “Something you wanna get off your chest? Miss Goddamn Perfect always knows better than everyone. You never liked Haven, anyway. You’re probably glad she’s gone.”
Tess gasped and covered her mouth as Dominic jumped up. He looked like he wanted to punch him, and for a moment, Carmine wished his brother would.
“I think you need some sleep,” Dominic said. “Haven’s like my sister. I’m upset, too, so don’t act like you’re the only one who cares.”
Carmine tried to get himself under control. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“I know you weren’t.” Dominic sat back down, focusing his attention on the laptop. “And if you think you can help in your condition, you’re wrong. So eat your sandwich and go close your damn eyes.”
* * *
The nondescript cinder block building stood in the middle of an abandoned neighborhood. Rust coated the black metal door, elaborate graffiti sprayed indiscriminately on the outside. Inside, the building was just as neglected, the concrete floor cracked and the walls covered in grime. It was still wired for electricity, overhead lights flickering. A metal exhaust fan near the ceiling continuously ran.
In the center of the room was a large card table, surrounded by men in collapsible chairs. Thousands of dollars lay on the table, empty beer bottles scattered around as each man held a set of cards. They spoke animatedly, arguing and laughing as their game of poker wore on into the night.
They seemed oblivious to the girl in the shadows of the far corner, curled up on a torn, stained mattress. Haven was equally as oblivious to them, her breathing shallow. Noises occasionally filtered into her blackness, muffled, incoherent words spoken in unrecognizable voices.
Little by little, she came back around, and with the consciousness came pain. The voices grew louder when she tried to sit up, her head swimming from disorientation. Panic flooded her system when the door banged in the distance. A woman entered and started toward the others, but stopped as she looked in Haven’s direction. “Why didn’t you tell me the girl was awake?”
o;I know. I’ll keep my mouth shut and let you do what you do. I’m not fucking naïve. I know what might be happening to her, but I need to be there, no matter what.”
Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. We’ll tie up some loose ends then leave.”
Carmine gazed at him. “Loose ends? Is it, uh . . . you know, that guy, and . . .”
He couldn’t finish his thought, but he didn’t have to. Vincent understood. “We have Johnny in the basement. He hasn’t said much, but I injected him with sodium thiopental a few minutes ago.”
“Sodium what?”
“Sodium thiopental. It’s a barbiturate. It suppresses the higher cortical functions of the brain, and since lying is such a complex process and it’s easier to—”
“English, please.”
“Truth serum,” Vincent said. “Hypothetically, anyway.”
Carmine nodded. “And Nicholas?”
Vincent stared at him, the look on his face the only answer Carmine needed. Even across the room, he could see the sorrow. “There wasn’t anything I could do.”
* * *
Dawn broke as Vincent stood in the safe room, once again interrogating a suffering Johnny. “Tell me where she is and this will end.”
“I can’t,” he said for what had to be the hundredth time, even proclaiming ignorance with the truth serum coursing through his veins.
Corrado approached, his dark eyes filled with rage. It wasn’t something Vincent saw often. It was a look that said someone was about to die.
Violently.
Vincent stepped out of the way as Corrado strode over to the cabinet along the wall. He rifled through it, pulling out knives and pliers, methodically laying the tools on the steel worktable in the safe room. “While you’re still alive, we’re going to play a game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe.”
Unable to stomach what was about to happen, Vincent walked away. A loud scream of agony echoed through the basement before he made it to the steps.
Johnny would be leaving the room soon . . . in pieces.
* * *
Corrado resurfaced an hour later, drenched from the rain outside and splattered with blood. His face was unreadable once more. “Russians.”
