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Carmine stumbled a few steps and winced as they shoved him down on the curb beside Celia. “Take it fucking easy, man! I’m hurt!”
“Do you need a medic, son?” an older man asked, stepping in their direction. Carmine narrowed his eyes, reading Special Agent U.S. D.O.J. written on his vest in bright yellow letters.
“I’m not your son,” he said. “And what I need is to get the fuck out of here.”
“Patience would be nice. I’m Special Agent Donald Cerone, head of the organized crime division.”
Carmine cocked an eyebrow at his Italian name. “Cerone? Must be new slang for traitor.”
The agent snickered, motioning for the other officer to give him Carmine’s belongings. Carmine sighed when the agent opened his wallet, knowing what he would find.
“Ah, what’s this?” he asked. “Carmine Marcello DeMarco. Tell me, son, what year were you born? We have two different IDs here with two different ages.”
“Vaffanculo.”
“Carmine,” Celia warned. “Stop goading him.”
Agent Cerone just laughed again.
A female agent released Celia from her handcuffs and handed her a cell phone to call a lawyer. They gave her paperwork, explaining what they were doing as officers released Dominic and Tess from their restraints. Carmine watched as calmly as he could, but his patience was severely thin.
“Are you gonna take mine off?” he asked. “This is bullshit, Cerone.”
Agent Cerone ignored Carmine’s request and instead tried to ask him questions, which Carmine in turn ignored, refusing to say a word. He ached and shifted position, but every time he did a dozen agents eyed him like he was going to run.
He would. He would run if he could get away.
They brought boxes and bags out of the house, all of them tagged with evidence tape. Carmine leaned back on his elbows and stared at the ground until someone yanked him to his feet. “Should I release him now, boss? We’re nearly done.”
Agent Cerone shook his head. “Take him downtown.”
“For what?” Carmine asked. “I didn’t fucking do anything!”
The smirk returned to the agent’s lips. “It’s been a pleasure, Carmine Marcello DeMarco. I’m sure we’ll see more of each other in the future.”
* * *
When Haven regained consciousness for the second time, sunlight streamed through the cracks around the exhaust fan. She tried to block out the pain as she looked around, her eyes meeting the same woman from before. “Good morning, pretty girl.”
Once again, everyone stopped talking and turned to her. Haven’s heart rate accelerated when she spotted Nunzio. In the daylight she could see he had a bandage on his cheek.
“Ah, Sleeping Beauty is awake?” a man asked as he stood from one of the chairs. He was tall with thick muscles, his face rigid as if chiseled from stone. His hair was mainly gray and his nose too large for his face. He, too, had an accent.
Nunzio laughed. “Didn’t even take a kiss from her prince to do it.”
“How do you feel?” the man asked, ignoring Nunzio’s comment. He dragged a chair across the room and sat down in front of Haven. Up close, she could see wrinkles covering his face. “Can you speak, Princzessa?”
Her brow furrowed at the word.
“Ah, confused? You are more comfortable with the Italians. Nunzy, boy, what word am I looking for?”
“Principessa.”
“Yes, do you know that one?” He raised his eyebrows, expecting some response. Haven nodded and cringed from the pain in her neck. “Are you hurting? You may speak. We are friends here.”
She gave him an incredulous look, and the woman laughed. “I don’t think she believes you, Papa.”
“So it appears,” he said, gazing at her curiously. “I cannot say I blame you. You should not trust people, especially the ones you associate with, but I will never deceive you as they have.”
