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“No, stop!” I lurch forward, only to be backhanded hard across the face by the nearer thug. Pain explodes through my cheek and stars burst across my vision. I collapse back against the wall, my head ringing. I claw at the peeling paint to keep my feet under me, blinking away involuntary tears.
"Clara!" Dad's anguished yell cuts through the cottony ringing in my ears. I force myself to look up just as the goon wrenches my makeshift weapon from my hand and tosses it away with a sneer. The keys skitter across the linoleum, out of reach.
“Some protection that was, with a little mouse like you.” The brute aims a swift kick at my stomach, driving all the air from my lungs in a pained wheeze. I double over, wrapping my arms around my throbbing midsection protectively. Dad's panicked shouts sound muffled and distant through the blood roaring in my ears.
Get up, I order myself. Don't show them weakness. Blinking back tears of pain, I use the wall to push myself slowly to my feet again, glaring at my tormentors. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
The goon just barks out a cruel laugh, glancing at his partner. “There’s that fire the boss mentioned. He’s gonna have fun breaking you.” His smile sends icy tendrils of fear curling through me, but I force myself to meet his cold stare steadily. I won't cower before him.
He grabs my chin painfully, forcing me to hold his malicious gaze. “Now, you’re going to tell us exactly what the Ricci family is up to and all their business deals. And in return, we’ll let Daddy here live.” His grip tightens until his ragged nails dig into my skin. I have to fight not to flinch. “Understand, sweetheart?”
I want to spit in his face, to curse him with every ounce of defiance left in my battered body. But my dad's labored, wheezing breaths behind me are a reminder there's too much at stake for foolish bravado. Slowly, hating myself, I give a small nod of acquiescence.
The goon releases me, that smug smile returning. “That’s better. Now have a seat.” He shoves me roughly into the kitchen and toward one of the rickety chairs. My body protests in pain, but I sink down obediently, smoothing my features into a neutral mask. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me react.
Over the next agonizing hour, the two men batter me with questions, demanding details about the Riccis’ operations. I reveal only tidbits and half-truths, just enough to satisfy their thirst for knowledge without betraying anything of real significance. When they press about the family’s arms deal, I feign ignorance. They clearly want insight to use as leverage in this mob war, but I walk a dangerous line. Give too much away, and I risk the Riccis' wrath. Too little, and these men will surely turn violent again. So I parse my words carefully, omitting anything crucial.
All the while praying that I can keep us both alive.
The interrogation shifts to my dad, demanding details on his art world contacts, the exclusive underground scene these mafia families are so desperate to access. Dad sticks to the script as best he can in his addled state. But the goons grow frustrated, their cruelty rising to the surface again.
Finally, the questions cease. They shove us both into my dad’s cramped bedroom, the flimsy hollow door providing little comfort as it slams shut behind us. We both flinch at the harsh sound. Then it’s just the two of us left alone, the silence heavy between us.
Across the dingy room, my dad meets my eyes, his face pale and haggard. His skin looks sallow and paper-thin, his once lean frame now gaunt, his eyes shadowed. But relief still shines through the fatigue and fear.
"Clara-bean." His voice cracks with emotion as he holds a trembling hand out to me.
I rush into his arms again, no longer caring how desperate I must seem. Right now, I just need the solid comfort of his embrace. "Dad, I was so scared they'd killed you... Are you okay?" Hot tears spill down my cheeks onto his shirt.
He smooths my hair gently, still trying to comfort me even now. "Shh, don't you worry about me, baby girl. I'll be fine." But he winces even as he says it, fresh bruises visible on his wrists and arms. Anger on his behalf lances through me.
Dad’s expression hardens as he tips my chin up gently, taking in the darkening bruise marring my cheek. "I'm so sorry I got you tangled up in all this. Sorry I couldn't give you the life you deserve after your mama passed." His voice cracks on the last words.
I shake my head, blinking back more tears. He blames himself, but the people who enabled his addictions all these years are truly to blame. The people now holding us prisoner. "It’s not your fault, Dad. We’ll get out of this. I won't let them hurt you again.”
We talk in hushed voices, weighing our options, bleak as they are. Calling the cops is out of the question—they confiscated both our phones and we don't have a landline anymore. We can only try to escape if the opportunity presents itself. But we know the chances are infinitesimally small under the watchful eyes of our captors.
Time becomes meaningless in the dingy bedroom. The hours blur into one interminable wait, our nerves wound tight as piano strings. Any small sound from elsewhere in the apartment makes me flinch - the scrape of a chair, murmurs from the next room, the heavy tread of footsteps passing by the door.
My legs cramp from sitting tensely on the sagging mattress, but I barely shift, afraid to draw attention by making the rusty springs creak. The silence between Dad and me is broken only by his occasional wet, wheezing coughs and the distant sounds of traffic on the street below, people passing by oblivious to our plight.
We don't discuss the grim irony of my position - having fled the den of one powerful crime boss, only to land straight into the hands of his bitterest rival. No scenario ends well for people like us, trapped between clashing titans. We're caught in a riptide, being swept ever closer to the jagged rocks, no matter how hard we kick against the current.
CHAPTER20
ANTONIO
My heart hammers in my chest as I pull into the long, circular driveway of the mansion, the familiar sight of my family's estate doing nothing to calm my nerves. The same sense of relief doesn't wrap around me tonight, though, knowing I have to face Clara and apologize and come clean about how I doubted her and set her up with the Ferraro family.
But as the sleek black car glides to a stop in front of the house, I feel it. Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones, a heavy weight settling in my gut that has plagued me since we left the docks after the arms deal went south.
I try to brush it off as I step out of the car into the cool night air, adjusting my jacket against the bite of the wind. It's just nerves about facing Clara, I tell myself. Just guilt gnawing at me like a ravenous wolf for ever doubting her loyalty. I should never have let suspicion cloud my judgment where she was concerned.
The front door creaks open beneath my hand, but there's no greeting from Clara. No warm light spilling from the library where she likes to stay up late reading. The expansive entrance hall lies silent and still, lacking its usual vibrancy and life.
My pulse quickens as apprehension skitters down my spine. "Clara?" I call out, my voice booming through the cavernous space. The only answer is my own echo.
I take the grand staircase two steps at a time, my Italian leather shoes clicking sharply against the marble floors. At the top, I stride down the hall towards the east wing and Clara's suite. Even just seeing her sleeping form will reassure me that all is well.
