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Needed to hold onto the hope that my uncle and my father would move Heaven and Earth to rescue me.
And wasn’t my father more powerful than anyone else?
“Have you lost your mind? Who are you talking to?” another voice said—also in English, also without accent.
“I might’ve taken something of Uncle Fausto’s.”
“You might’ve?”
“Mhmm.”
“Fuck, Gabe, what did you take?”
“It’s more a who.”
“A who?” The guy sounded completely dumbfounded.
“La schiava.”
“La schiava?You took the slave? Are you completely nuts?”
They were back to English, so I could at least understand what they were talking about.
Me—they were talking about me. I wasla schiava—the slave.
“He allegedly already tried to kill me, so giving him one more reason doesn’t change the outcome.”
“He did what? When? But why?”
“Why not?”
“I know you, Brother; we’re not taking slaves.”
“Well, I do now.”
“Incredible.”
“Believe it, Cristo. Now I need a good hiding place for her.”
“Cazzo.”
I didn’t catch a lot from their conversation from then on, but it sounded like they were trading insults in Italian.
Actually, I only caught two things. The one named Cristo was not happy.
And they were brothers.
A family.
An Italian family.
All men, all dressed in black suits, holding slaves as if they were above the law.
As if they were the law.
Which could only mean one thing.
I was a slave to the Italian Mafia.
