by JM Darhower
“I'm not your son,” he said. “And what I need is to get the fuck out of here.”
“A little patience would be nice. I'm Special Agent Donald Cerone, head of the organized crime division.”
Carmine cocked an eyebrow at his Italian name. “Cerone? Must be new slang for ‘traitor’.”
The agent laughed. “And you must be DeMarco's son.”
Carmine narrowed his eyes. “What’s so fucking funny?”
He shook his head, motioning for the other officer to give him Carmine’s belongings. Carmine sighed the moment the agent opened his wallet, knowing what he was about to find.
“Ah, what's this?” he asked, amused. “Carmine Marcello DeMarco. Tell me, son, what year were you born? We seem to have two different ID's here with two different ages.”
“Vaffanculo.”
“Carmine,” Celia warned. “Stop goading him.”
Agent Cerone just laughed again.
A female agent released Celia from her handcuffs and handed her a cell phone to call a lawyer. They gave her paperwork, explaining what they were doing as officers released Dominic and Tess from their restraints. Carmine watched as calmly as he could, but his patience was severely wearing thin.
“Are you gonna take mine off?” he asked when everyone else was freed. The officers standing around didn't respond. He groaned. “Seriously, this is bullshit.”
“Go ahead and take his cuffs off,” Agent Cerone said, smirking. They removed his cuffs, and Carmine rubbed his wrists.
Celia was allowed up when her lawyer arrived, and they took that opportunity to separate the rest of them. Carmine sat quietly as they led Tess and Dominic away, leaving him in front of the agent who still held his wallet.
Agent Cerone asked him questions, but he ignored, refusing to say a word. He was aching and tried to shift position, but every time he did a dozen agents eyed him like he was going to run.
He would. He’d run if he knew he could get away.
They started bringing boxes and bags out of the house, all of them tagged with evidence tape. Carmine was leaning back on his elbows and staring down at the ground when someone walked over to Agent Cerone, holding a piece of paper. “Here's the list of items we’ve seized.”
“Good. Is it complete?”
“Almost,” the man said. ”They're packing up the computers now, a desktop and laptop in the downstairs office, and another laptop in the living room.”
Carmine’s eyes snapped to him. That was their greatest chance of finding Haven. “What the fuck do you mean you're packing up that laptop?”
Agent Cerone glanced at him. “Oh, now you want to talk? It's being taken for evidence.”
“Why?”
“Because the warrant states that all computers and data drives were to be seized.”
“But you can't take that one.”
“Why?”
“Because you can't,” he said. “I need it.”
Agent Cerone wasn’t moved by the explanation. “It'll be returned if it's proven to be unnecessary to our investigation.”
Dread hit Carmine when an officer carried his father's laptop out of the house in a clear plastic bag. He jumped to his feet as a dozen agents turned to him, drawing their weapons.
“Stop!” Agent Cerone demanded at the same time something slammed into him from the side. The force of it sent him flying onto the ground. He tried to push the people off as they forced him onto his stomach to handcuff him again.
Carmine was pulled to his feet as Agent Cerone shook his head. “Take him downtown.”
“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 be seeing more of each other in the future.”
* * * *
When Haven regained consciousness for the second time, the building was much lighter as sunlight streamed through the cracks from outside. Voices echoed through the room, but she couldn’t make out what was being said, some of the words foreign in heavy accented voices.
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 as they turned to her. Haven’s heart rate accelerated when she spotted Nunzio. He had a bandage on his cheek.
“Ah, Sleeping Beauty is awake?” a man asked as he stood up 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 seemed to be 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 his face was covered in wrinkles. “Can you speak, princzessa?”
Her brow furrowed at the word, and he smiled. “Ah, confused, are you? 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 sort of response. Haven nodded and cringed from the pain in her neck. “Are you hurting, Principessa? You may speak. We are friends here.”
She gave him an incredulous look, and they all laughed. “I don’t think she believes you, Papa,” the woman said.
“So it appears,” the man 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 the fact that your Italians have not been honest with you, nor have they treated you fairly, Principessa.”
He was confusing 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 still 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 was 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 DeMarco’s for many years. Our families are in the same business and have had a few encounters. In fact, Vincent was a child the first time I met him. He was a pretentious prick, much like I hear his youngest son is.”
He laughed, as did Nunzio, and Haven felt tears forming at their mention of Carmine.
“Did I strike a nerve, Principessa?” he asked. “It would be a pity if something happened to him, so let us hope it does not come to that.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t…”
“I do not wish to hurt him, either. If it helps, I have not heard of his death, so he is probably fine.”
His voice was nonchalant, almost as if he were taunting her. She tried to fight back her tears, but it was too much for her to take.
“Aw, do not cry,” he said, reaching toward her. She recoiled, and he dropped his hand before touching her. “Well, where was I?”
“You were talking about how much of a prick Vincent was,” Nunzio said.
“Ah, yes. This was before he met that wife of his, of course. Pity what happened to her. I suppose I should feel guilty about that, but it was her fault.”
“You?” Haven asked. “You did it?”
“You can say I am the conductor of the beautiful symphony.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What do you not understand?”
“Your son?” She glanced at Nunzio. “How can that be? I thought he was Salvatore’s family.”
“That cockroach is not my family,” Nunzio said. “He might be yours, but he’s nothing to me.”
“Relax, Nunzy,” Ivan said. “She does not know, remember?”
She was even more confused. “What are you talking about?”
“We are talking about you, Principessa.”
“What do I have to do with this?”
“Everything,” he said. “You have the power to help bring down the enemy, and that is what you are going to do.”
She hesitated. “The enemy?”
“Yes. You see, I have been laying the groundwork around Chicago, taking over businesses. We have nearly wiped out the competition, all except for the Italians. People are loyal to them, and they have proven to be strong. It is very irritating. I do not like being told where I can go in the city and what I can do. So I have found little ways in and turned a few, but none of them were powerful enough. I needed to get something bigger, someone higher up. I needed to crack the leadership, and Nunzy has been working to create a rift, but they have still held themselves together. But it is different now. Now I have you.”
“Me? But I’m just… I’m no one.”
He laughed. “Oh, you are definitely someone. You have the power to cripple them, starting from the very top. I have been holding this card for years, wondering the best way to play it. When Nunzy told me the DeMarco boy was in love with you, I saw the perfect opportunity. I was not positive how far they would go for you, but I do know Vincent would die for his son. If the boy loves you as he claims, he is going to do anything it takes to rescue you.”
She stared at him as what he said sank in. “You’re hoping Carmine comes after me.”
“I am counting on it, Principessa. You are my golden ticket. If I kidnapped the DeMarco boy, the Italians would come with guns blazing for revenge. But you are trickier. Salvatore will be very happy to have you gone, the complication removed, but the others will not give up. There is nothing I enjoy more than seeing them fight amongst themselves. And when the DeMarco boy demands action, someone will spill the truth over who you are, thinking it will rally them. Thinking it will make Salvatore want to help.”
Ivan laughed long and hard, as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
“Who am I?” She immediately regretted the question, but it was too late to take it back.
“I have been trying to tell you. You are the buried treasure, the one Salvatore thought would never be found, but I have dug you up.” He reached out, his calloused finger drawing an ‘X’ on her forehead. “When the dust settles and they have all killed each other, everything will be mine for the taking… including you.”
He stood up and turned to the blond haired woman. “Get her some water and something to eat, Natalia. Let her rest. You and your brother are on watch tonight.”
Haven sat as still as possible, her eyes vigilantly darting around the room as people filtered out to leave her and Nunzio alone. He strolled over to her and knelt down, placing his hand on her knee.
She fought back a shudder as his hand roamed up her leg and came to rest on her thigh. He squeezed tightly, his fingers digging into her flesh, and she cringed as he pulled himself up. Leaning over, he paused with his mouth next to her ear. “Miss me?”
A chill shot down her spine when his tongue swirled around her earlobe. Panicking, she shoved him. He stumbled a few steps, and before he could react, she pulled her leg up and slammed it into his crotch. He hunched over as she jumped up, her vision blurring from the sudden movement. She sprinted for the metal door across the room, but barely made it halfway there when she was grabbed from behind.
“I like it when you fight,” Nunzio said breathlessly. She cried for help as he dragged her across the room, grabbing a roll of duct tape from the card table.
She shook her head at the sight of it. “No.”
He smirked. “Yes.”
She tried to move past him, shoving him again, but he grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. Pain ripped up her shoulder with such intensity that everything went black. He threw her on the mattress and straddled her.
Her brittle fingernails caught on his skin as she grasped at his face, pulling his bandage off and ripping the stitches underneath. Blood gushed from the wound, running down her arm.
Raising his fist, Nunzio slammed it into her face. Stars danced before her eyes. He tore off a piece of duct tape to cover her mouth. After muffling her cries, he jerked her onto her stomach. Pain radiated through her body as he forced her arms behind her, binding her hands and ankles together before throwing the roll of tape in anger. He wiped his cheek, bringing his hand up to eye the blood, before storming outside.
She knew better than to think he’d left, though.
Natalia returned with a bag of food and sat down on the mattress beside her. She unbound her and gentled pulled the duct tape from Haven’s mouth, feeding her for a bit until Haven turned away. Sickness churned in her stomach as Natalia patted her head.
Eventually, Haven passed out from exhaustion, only to awaken sometime later to Ivan kneeling in front of her. “I thought you were going to cooperate, Principessa.”
“I, uh, he was going to—”
“I do not need excuses,” he said. “I need cooperation.”
Before she could speak again, he jabbed her with a needle. “It will be easier this way.”
* * * *
The holding cells at Cook County Jail are massive bullpens of chain-linked fence. They’re overcrowded, the sour, putrid smell inside of them strong enough to singe nose hair. Carmine sat in the corner with his head down, surrounded by dozens of murderers, druggies, and thieves. The atmosphere was tense as people bickered, scuffles breaking out between rival detainees. On edge, he was trying to maintain his strength, but he was dangerously close to cracking.
Hours passed. Carmine’s name was occasionally called, and he was transferred from one place to another, each cell identical to the one before it.
It was after nightfall when they booked him into the system. He was taken to a small room where he sat across from a lady who asked him a lot of questions he had no desire to answer. He humored her with the basics, like his name and date of birth, but when she asked him how he felt or if he were suicidal, he remained silent.
The love of his life was missing, his help was gone, and the biggest hope in finding her was confiscated by the government. Instead of being out there, searching, he was trapped in a room with the nosy bitch asking him if he felt angry. Of course he was angry. Wasn’t he supposed to be?
They gave up and ordered him out, writing an identification number on his arm in permanent marker before fingerprinting him and taking mug shots. He stared at the number the whole time, feeling sick at the sight of it. They were stripping him of his name. He was now number 2006-0903201.
An intake officer photographed Carmine’s tattoos as he continued to glare at the number. “Are you affiliated with any gangs?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? LCN counts as a gang.”
“LCN?”
“Yeah, you know, the Mafia.”
Carmine cut his eyes at him. “There is no Mafia.”
The officer shook his head, writing something down on his file before sending Carmine to be strip searched. He was given a medical screening, the entire process invasive. By the time he put on that orange jumpsuit for protective custody, he felt like he’d been thoroughly fucked.
They took him to division nine, placing him in a small cell on the top tier. It was closed in and suffocating, no bars or windows to the outside. The green paint on the thick metal door was flaking, words scratched into it under the tiny dingy window. He had nothing but a light and a threadbare blanket, the matt
ress no thicker than a piece of egg crate foam.
More hours slipped by while Carmine lay there alone, staring at the ceiling. He could hear inmates all around him yelling, sirens going off as guards ran by the door.
He barely slept, tossing and turning in agony all night. The next morning they came by with a breakfast tray, but he refused to eat their food, demanding they get him a lawyer.
The same thing happened with lunch—he ignored their food, and they ignored his questions. He was infuriated by the time dinner rolled around, utterly exhausted and frantically pacing the cell. He heard someone walking up and expected another tray to be shoved inside, but he was surprised when two correctional officers unlocked his door.
“You have a visitor,” one of them said. After he was handcuffed and shackled, they led him to a small room with a table in the middle of it. There was a hefty balding man inside, a briefcase open in front of him on the table. He looked up when Carmine entered and motioned for him to sit down. The corrections officer secured Carmine to the table before leaving them alone.
“My name’s Rocco Borza, Attorney at Law,” the man said. “Celia DeMarco-Moretti contacted me about you. I've been retained a few times by the family, so I'm aware of the situation.”
He pulled out some paperwork, sliding it across the table to Carmine along with a pen. “I need you to sign these, agreeing to let me handle your case, and anything you say is confidential.”
He scanned the papers and awkwardly signed the lines the best he could with his restraints, before sliding them back across.
“First of all, I need to know if you've spoken to anyone,” he said, slipping the papers back into his briefcase. “Have they attempted to interrogate you?”
“No,” he said. “They haven't even explained why I'm here.”
“They charged you with possessing a fraudulent government document,” he said. “It’s a Class 4 Felony but can easily be knocked down to a misdemeanor. You should've been given a probable cause hearing within a few hours of your arrival and been released on bail, but it seems they've forgotten their own protocol.”
