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“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.”
Haven’s voice was scratchy. “What are you talking about?”
“Ah, she speaks!” His hard expression gave way to excitement. “What I am talking about is that your Italians have not been honest with you, nor have they treated you fairly, Principessa.”
He confused her. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Would you rather I call you by your slave name?”
“I, uh . . .” Did she? “I don’t know.”
He laughed. “I cannot believe you do not know.”
“I told you,” Nunzio said. “She’s clueless.”
The man leaned toward her, his hands clasped together in front of him. Haven tried to move away, her back pressed into the corner, his proximity nerve-racking.
“You are probably wondering what you are doing here,” he said, his tone serious. “I will level with you—I do not wish to hurt you, but I will if you make me, so I am asking for cooperation. I know you have fight in you, considering you have twice scarred my son.”
She gaped at him as he motioned toward Nunzio. Son?
“I should explain,” he said. “I am Ivan Volkov, and I have been acquainted with the DeMarcos for many years. Vincent was a child the first time we met. He was a pretentious prick, much like I hear his youngest is.”
He laughed, as did Nunzio, and Haven felt tears forming at the mention of Carmine.
“Did I strike a nerve, Principessa?” he asked. “I hear you care for the boy. It would be a pity if something happened to him, so let us hope it does not come to that.”
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t . . .”
“I do not wish to hurt him. If it helps, I have not heard of his death, so he is probably fine.”
His voice taunted her. She tried to fight back tears, but it was too much to take.
