What had surprised him?
I stared at him, trying to ascertain why he’d kept his father from killing me, but the emotion behind his eyes became as abruptly blocked from view as if he’d slammed shutters over them. I watched as Angelo tore his concentration from me to this other man and was shocked to hear the older man give a harsh, mirthless laugh.
“Well, well, well,” Angelo said, the tone of his voice hard for me to classify. He’d been absolutely livid, but now that he was focused on his son, I realized there were two different emotions in his voice vying for supremacy. One was disappointment. But the other… the one that seemed the strongest, sounded like relief. “Interesting.”
I had no idea what he meant by this, and I continued to feel baffled as the older man flipped something on his gun and laid it on a nearby table.
His gaze hardened again as he turned toward the shadows. “Can you remove the… offense?”
“Yes, Father,” Alessandro answered from just beyond my sight.
“See that you do.” He then turned to his other son. “She is your responsibility, Luca.”
Luca nodded, sending a swift but unfathomable look in my direction. “Yes, Father.”
4
Luca
Once my father left the room, I scrutinized the woman I’d become responsible for, wondering what the hell I’d been thinking. I’d defied the patriarch of our family, and I couldn’t even explain why. All I knew was I didn’t want her brains splattered over the acid-washed concrete of our floor.
Which didn’t make sense, really. Why had I intervened? What difference did it make if she died? My father had dispatched numerous others for far less, both in this room and elsewhere.
I signaled for Marco to make himself useful. He’d been standing there in the shadows, one foot braced against the brick and mortar wall as he took in the proceedings. Without a word, he retrieved the switchblade from his pocket and sliced through the plastic zip ties restraining the woman. Grabbing her by the arms and bringing her to her feet, he pushed her into the next room.
A room we generally used to extract information.
The wall that separated it from the larger space had been constructed of two-inch thick rebar laid out in a crisscross pattern not even a hand could pass through. The ends of each of these bars had been cast in cement nothing short of C4 could hope to breach. Then, there was the thick padlock.
In this cell sat a metal bunk bolted to the floor, sans mattress. A bucket serving as the only restroom had been stationed in one corner. Not exactly five-star accommodations.
And never before used to hold a woman.
Of course, few women would ever do what this one had. I flipped a switch on the wall which activated the long fluorescent light fixture over the cell. The harsh bluish light exposed her to our view, allowing us to keep an eye on her without difficulty. It also lit the rest of the room, showing where Alessandro sat at a nearby card table, working to take down the offending video.
Once she’d been secured, Marco went back to his place on the wall, digging a bright green apple out of his suit jacket. Using the same switchblade, he sliced off a section and offered it to me. I shook my head and he shrugged, eating it himself. He swallowed, then jerked his chin toward the cell. “This one may be more trouble than she’s worth.”
“Perhaps,” I said, quietly.
“I can hear you, you know,” the woman said, and I went to stand behind Alessandro, glancing at the notes he’d made on her.
“Molly RaeAnne Greene. Former server and cook, current in-house chef—”
“Not anymore,” she interrupted me. Her impertinence seemed to know no bounds.
“Excuse me?” I asked in a voice that made many cower before me. Not her, though.
“I quit. Yesterday. I got sick of their bullshit.”
Still cutting up his apple, Marco snorted. I sent him a warning glance and despite continuing to smirk, he fell silent. “Two misdemeanor charges of shoplifting as a minor. Completed education through the eleventh grade only. No college credits to your name. Daughter of Bill and Janet Greene, sister of Tara.”
I studied the woman to see her reaction to us having so much knowledge of her past. She regarded me with a blank, flat stare until I mentioned her sister’s name, then her whiskey brown eyes broadened with a flash of fear. She covered it swiftly, but not swiftly enough. She didn’t appear to care about any of the other facts I’d mentioned, but she did care about her sister.
She didn’t speak, so I went on. “Marital status: single. Age: twenty-five. Currently appearing on a YouTube channel under the username of Masked Mardi. Number of followers at last count: 998. No other known professional affiliations.” Slowly, almost carelessly, I stepped toward her. She’d remained on her feet, her stance firm and wary.
“999,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. When I simply stared at her, she spoke again. “You said 998 but it’s actually 999 followers. I checked it right before I put up my latest video.” Her purpose had clearly been to correct me.
“She’s got some balls on her, I’ll give her that,” this came from Sandro. “It’s done.” I nodded at him. My father would be pleased to hear that her clips had been obliterated from every available feed online.