by Holly Hart
The second thing I notice is that I’m in a whole heap of trouble. I’m in a hole so deep I can’t even see a scrap of light at the top. I don’t even know if there is a top. I’m tied to a wooden chair, hands bound by rope behind my back. The rope’s fibers are biting into my wrists.
“Sleeping beauty,” Mickey grins. He must’ve seen me stir, “So nice of you to join us again.”
I look up. My neck aches. It sends shooting signals of pain that tingle down every nerve ending. “Where,” I croak because my tongue and lips rival the dryness of the Sahara. “Where am I?”
Mickey shrugs. Tony, to his left, looks utterly bored. The detective, dressed in gray suit pants and what looks like a waterproof hiking jacket, looks somewhere in between embarrassed and deeply depressed. He looks more like a geography teacher than a kidnapper.
“A little place I know. What does it matter?”
I let my head slump forward.
“I guess it doesn’t, much,” I say. I speak with as little energy as I can. The weaker they think I am, the more likely I will – might – be able to find a moment of opportunity. It might just be for a second when they drop their guard. I’ll have to be ready; but I will take my chance. “What are you going to do with me?” I mutter. “You owe me that much.”
Mickey beams and claps his hands together. I haven’t seen him this genuinely excited since we were kids. But now, right here, it’s sickening. “I’m glad you asked,” he says, like any movie bad guy desperate to reveal his plan. “You’re gonna love it: really.”
I glance up at the animal wearing my brother’s body. I roll my eyes. “I doubt that: very much.”
“You say tomato, I say tomato,” Mickey says, saying both words exactly the same. He stares at me the whole time. It’s some kind of oblique threat. I don’t know why he bothers. It’s not like I have a choice in what happens to me now.
“Get on with it, Mickey,” I grunt. I’m in no mood to listen to my brother’s grandstanding. The knowledge that I’m about to die has definitely lowered my tolerance for bullshit.
My brother jerks his thumb at the detective, who’s doing his best to disappear into the gray concrete surroundings. Mackey looks embarrassed, maybe even ashamed, to suddenly be the center of attention.
“You see, I’m not the idiot you think I am, So-fi-a,” my brother hisses. “I know this Family doesn’t stand a chance in a straight up war with the Byrnes’.” He strokes my chin, and I shudder. “Especially,” Mickey continues with a clipped, aggressive tone, “now that you have whispered your poison into Matteo Lorenzi’s ears.”
I shrug, struggling against the tightness of the ropes binding me to the chair. As my wrists pull upwards, I feel the rope slip. “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, brother…”
Mickey waves his hand airily. “Oh, no: nothing like that. Mr. Mackey here agreed to help out. Didn’t you, Detective?”
My eyes flicker rightward and land on the detective’s face. He grimaces, pulling his lips back over his teeth. “You’re an asshole, Morello,” he grunts. “I never agreed to get in this deep.”
Mickey rolls his eyes. “This again,” he growls, looking at me, as if for support. “You’ll get what you want out of this, Detective. There will be blood on your hands, but you’ll get what you want.” He crouches down next to me. “You see – I can’t hope to kill all those Irish pricks on my own … but what if half of them were locked up?”
My face drains of what little blood it had left. I suddenly appreciate the full horror of my brother’s plan. He’s going to set the city’s cops on Kieran and his brothers, and then fall on the remnants with the ferocity of a pack of wolves.
Mickey claps his hands together. “So you do understand! Perfect. Didn’t think I had it in me, did you, Sofia?”
“I guess we are all full of surprises,” I growl. My eyes are filled with hatred for my brother. Hell – he doesn’t deserve that title, not anymore. I pull at the ropes tying me down once again, and once again they slip against the wooden chair.
A bolt of adrenaline floods through my veins. It’s not much, but it’s hope. I might be able to free myself. But to try, I need to keep Mickey talking, or at least distracted, for as long as possible.
My phone is sitting with my purse and jacket on a trestle table. It buzzes: vibrating against the wooden surface. All three men’s heads swivel in unison and look at the offending device. Mickey walks over to the table slowly. The phone call dies, and I sag against my chair.
“Who’s calling you, sister dearest?” Mickey asks me in a singsong, deranged voice. “Perhaps it’s your boyfriend?” He shoots me a black look. “Or should I call him your fiancé, now?” I believe the father of my child will do. I don’t reply. My fingers are too busy unpicking the knots holding me down. Mickey picks up the cell phone.
“See,” he continues, “while you were asleep, we sent Kieran a few messages from your number. It seems that you two had a fight,” Mickey grins, and Tony apes his master. “Maybe you don’t feel safe around Kieran Byrne any longer. That’s understandable. A man with his record…” Mickey shrugs. “I wouldn’t either.”
“He’s a better man than you’ll ever be.”
“Kieran Byrne murdered you, Sofia,” Mickey says, plastering a look of fake, mocking sadness on his face. “He couldn’t take being rejected, and he pumped your chest full of bullets. At least, that’s what the detective here will write in his report. That is what the papers will write. My poor, sweet sister, killed by the Irish mob … I’ll be there in court, of course. Wiping away a tear …”
The phone buzzes in his hands – just once – cutting off Mickey’s mad rant. It’s a text message. I look up.
“Well, well, well…” Mickey says, turning to the detective and Tony Bianchi. “This is unexpected.” He reads from the screen. “I’ve got your man. I care nothing for your fight. I want to do a deal. Lorenzi.”
My head sags to my chest. It feels like every last breath has been ripped out of my chest. My only hope was that Kieran might come and save me. But if Matteo has turned on me to save his boys, then that hope is lost. Tears sting my eyes. I’m not crying for myself. I’m crying because I never wanted Kieran to die saving me.
Mickey chuckles. “I guess that makes life easier for all of us.” He turns to regard me, hands on hips; “Except you, of course, little sister.”
“Burn in hell, Mickey,” I spit in a mocking, angered tone. “You and all your pathetic little minions,” I finish, jerking my head at Tony and the detective.
Mickey – no, Michael – walks around me, face twisted in a violent grimace. His footsteps echo around the empty concrete warehouse. I have to fight to control my breathing. For all that I’m angry, I’m scared as well. I remember papa once telling me that bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s what you do when you’re afraid.
Well, I am afraid. But I’ll die before I show a hint of it to my brother.
Michael stands behind me. I stop tearing at my binds, for fear of being caught. He rests his hands on my shoulders. The warmth should be comforting in the freezing warehouse, but it burns like acid. He leans down, moving his lips to know more than an inch from my ear. “That’s quite a potty mouth you have on you, sister. Too bad you won’t live long enough to clean it out. Murder-suicides: they are a terrible thing.”
He stands up and clicks his fingers. “Tony, come upstairs with me. Now. We’ve got an operation to discuss.”
My eyes follow Michael as he prances around like a tin general, my cell phone in his hand. He’s reveling in this new role: taking pride in his power over me. I hope it turns to dust in his hands. Detective Mackey flinches, and starts to follow behind. Mickey turns to face the man with a sardonic grin. “Not you, Detective. You wouldn’t want to get your hands dirty, now – would you?”
The detective grimaces, but says nothing. I watch as Michael and Tony climb a flight of stairs to a raised office area. A light flicks on, a door closes, and the detective and I are left
alone. My heart pumps double-time inside my chest. I know this is an opportunity; I just have to figure out how to take it. I have a wildcard: this might just be the moment to use it.
“You’re in over your head,” I say, attempting to sound both sympathetic and threatening at the same time. It’s a hard double act to pull off. “You think you’re going to come out of this a hero?” I ask, studying the detective’s face carefully. A muscle flickers on his left temple.
I shrug; or, at least, I attempt to. The rope around my wrists loosens another fraction of an inch. “You do,” I say, chewing my lip thoughtfully. “But you won’t, you must know that by now?”
I receive another loaded silence.
I nod. “You do.” I pause, letting the silence between the two of us drag out as long as I dare. I can’t let the detective speak. As long as I’m the one talking, I have some element of control. “Are you a killer, Detective? Because the way I see it, there is a whole lot of difference between a cop who takes a life in the service of the law, and one who acts as judge, jury and executioner…”
“The hell do you know?” The detective spits. His temple keeps pulsing. I know that I have hit a nerve; I’m getting to him. “You’re just mafia scum like the rest of them.”
I nod slowly. “Maybe,” I whisper so that Mackey has to lean forward and strain to hear me. “But you didn’t sign up for this, did you: to kill a pregnant woman? Maybe you’ve justified having a life on your hands?” I ask, staring him dead in the eyes. “How will you justify two?”
Detective Mackey flinches. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he started shivering. I hate using my baby like this, but if it gets both of us out of this mess, then I will do it and feel no guilt.
“You’re lying…” He whispers, his face drained of blood. The detective looks like a ghost just passed straight through him.
“Read my face, detective,” I say. There’s no need for me to lie, not now. I just need Mackey to see the truth that is written on my face.
The detective groans, and runs his fingers through his hair. I can’t figure out whether I should stay silent and let the man’s conscience ride roughshod over him, or keep sticking in the knife.
In the end, I don’t get a chance. The door swings open upstairs. In the seconds we have left alone, I send a pleading look in Mackey’s direction. I don’t know if I’ve done enough. The detective was happy enough to let me die. Maybe he can rationalize another life away as well; even one that’s yet to be born?
“Okay, Michael growls, “mount up. It’s time to move out. Mackey, you’re coming with us. We can leave Sofia here. She’s not going anywhere.”
I drop my gaze from the detective’s face. His expression is a complex cloud of emotion, and I haven’t got the energy to spare on trying to figure it out. I concentrate on attacking the rope around my wrists. I feel the fibers loosening. I’m getting closer to freeing myself.
All I can think is that if I managed to free myself, then Kieran’s life won’t be worth anything as a bargaining chip. Perhaps I can bargain for his freedom. But first I need to free my wrists. My fingernails get progressively more chapped and broken as I pick away at the thick fibers.
“Tony,” Michael grunts. “Check my baby sister is sitting pretty. I wouldn’t want her to take a walk without me…”
I freeze. I can’t let Tony notice what I’m doing. I’m so close; I only need a few more minutes. If they leave me in this warehouse alone, I might have enough time to save Kieran’s life. I pull the fibers tight and sit up. My mind is racing.
“Oh, Mickey,” I purr, and raise one eyebrow in a challenge. “Not taking your favorite baby sister with you?”
I watch Tony carefully out of the corner of my eye as he wanders over towards me. I want him to see a helpless, defeated girl, so I slump into the chair.
My brother ignores me, mostly. I see his lips tighten with disdain. “You can freeze in here for all I care, bitch.”
Tony is finally behind me. It’s his turn to rest his hands on my shoulders, and I hate the sensation just as much as when my own brother tried it. Tony’s thick fingers feel like cold, dead fish. He runs them down my shoulders – for no reason other than to touch me. I know what he’s doing. It’s disgusting, but I don’t react. There are more important things at stake. I tuck a bit of rope into my fingers, hoping to keep the rest of the fibers taut.
Tony’s fingers scrape their way down my arms, pausing at my sides. It’s no coincidence that he touches my breasts. It would be an impossible feat unless he was actively trying. He’s a creep. Tony’s fingers continue their long, slow and unhurried journey down my arms, until they close around my wrists. He tugs at the knots. Apparently satisfied, I see him standing up. I let out a sigh: slow enough that I won’t be detected.
But then Tony freezes. My heart stops with him.
“Boss,” Tony grunts in his rough, workmanlike voice. “She’s been unpicking the knots. What do you want me to do with her?”
I feel a chill closing in on my heart. I was so close to getting free, and yet it was all for nothing. If Kieran dies without me by his side, I don’t know how I’ll live with the guilt. Though – I guess – I won’t have to, not for long.
Mickey strides towards me, thunder clouds darkening his face. I hardly blink before the back of his hand collides with my cheek, a stinging slap that sends my head sideways, while what sounds like a gunshot echoes around the gray warehouse.
“You stupid whore,” he swears loudly. “Screw it. We’ll take the bitch with us.” Michael leans down and leers at me. “Make it easier to kill the pair of you.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kieran
I’m standing in a parking lot, facing Matteo Lorenzo. A group of his boys form a loose circle around us. It looks like a bareknuckle, off the books, fight club. In truth, that’s what it is about to become. The scent of sweat carries on the crisp night air, acting like a siren screaming danger.
“If it’s between me life and Sofia’s, ye save the girl, understood?” I growl, staring at Matteo’s dark brown and inscrutable eyes. If there’s a story in them, I can’t read it. Other than my brothers, there’s no man I’d rather have by my side in this kind of a fight. The only problem I have is I know I can trust my brothers. With Matteo, I can’t be so sure. My chances, of somehow escaping this shindig alive, are basically fifty-fifty. It’s a risk I’m more than willing to take.
“If you die, your brother won’t rest until every one of my boys is in the ground,” Matteo replies, his face wrinkled with understanding. I watch as his eyes flicker around the circle, picking out each one of his soldiers in turn. I have to admire the man for how much he cares. In this business, I’ve met a lot of leaders who don’t care about the men under their command.
I grin, clapping Lorenzi on the back. “Then ye had better make sure neither of us dies, then. Wouldn’t ye say?”
Matteo’s frowned face creases even further, if that’s possible. This time it’s not worry, but distaste that’s written on his cheeks. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” He asks. “It’s going to hurt.”
“Do you love your wife, Matteo?” I ask. Every time I think that the man’s face can’t scrunch up anymore, he manages to surprise me. He looks like the Grand Canyon by now – thick, coppery crevices burrowed into his tanned, weathered face.
“Naturally,” he nods, “more than life itself.”
“Perhaps ye aren’t the only man to ever feel that way about a girl…” I grunt. Matteo stares directly into my eyes, reading them, reading me. He nods his head, but doesn’t say a word in reply. He doesn’t need to.
I put my fists up in a boxer’s stance, and duck back and forth a couple of times, throwing lazy air punches. “Besides if it doesn’t hurt, then yer not doing yer job right.”
Matteo shrugs off his winter coat and hands it to one of his men. The fingers of his left hand play with a gold football ring on his right. I watch as he spins it round and round, loosen
ing it, preparing to take it off. I shake my head. “Don’t,” I grunt. “Keep it on. There’ll be more blood, that way.”
“You Irish,” Matteo remarks, face filled with disbelief. “You’re crazy bastards, you know that?”
I nod. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”
I clasp my hands behind my back. For all my bravado, I’ve never just stood back and allowed someone to beat me up before. I shrug, forcing a smile onto my face.
“You’re ready?” Matteo asks.
“Born that way,” I agree.
The Old Italian mobster clenches his fist. His forearm bulges like a squashed balloon, veins popping with dark, angry blood. He telegraphs the punch from a mile off – though I guess I’m looking because I know exactly what’s about to happen. His knuckles impact just under my chin, and send me staggering back. For all that the old man has two decades on me; he still packs one hell of a punch.
I shake my head to clear away the stars, and run my tongue across my gums. “Ack, come on now. Ye can do better than that, can’t ye?”
Matteo grimaces. “I never hit a man who didn’t deserve it before,” he mutters. “It just doesn’t feel right.”
I glance around the small crowd of men surrounding us. The guilt of effectively throwing Sofia to the wolves raises its ugly head again. I think of her, about where she could be: terrified; perhaps tied up; perhaps wondering if she’ll ever see my face again; perhaps hoping not to.
I think of my child in her belly.
“Maybe I do deserve it, Matteo,” I say. “Hit me like I do.”
I don’t see the next strike coming. This time, Matteo puts everything he has into the punch. I rock backwards. I stand up straight to present Matteo a bigger target, even though my head is ringing, vision jangling like an old alarm bell’s hammer is striking my skull. He hits me again, and again, until I feel blood flowing in thick rivulets from my forehead. It feels like thick, warm paint, or pancake batter. only warmer. Matteo strikes me until he’s out of breath, and the crowd around us is groaning. I don’t know why. I’m the one he’s punching…
