by Soraya Naomi
I frown when I learn a new piece of information: Chicago Syndicate had me guarded around the clock while I worked for them?
“However, I witnessed you with Adriano. He had a weakness for you, and you for him. You’re quite the ingénue. Men fall at your feet, even poor Santino here,” Sal mocks with a low chuckle.
The guard raises his fist and hits Santino in the cheek so hard that his head shoots to the side.
“No!” My scream is muffled by Sal’s hand while I claw at his arm.
“Yes, Camilla, you will do this for me or else I’ll torture Santino and kill your precious Adriano in front of your eyes. Do you want them both to die?”
Santino takes blows to his face until his eye is swollen shut.
“Camilla!” Sal whisper-yells, forcing a reaction from me.
Anything to keep them from killing this man right now. Santino’s pain cuts through me, and the moment Sal lifts his hand from my mouth, I yell, “Stop! I’ll do it! I’ll do it!”
I’m catching my breath as Santino grunts in pain.
“Perfect! Now as insurance...” Sal comments, trailing off.
I step forward to touch Santino, but my fingers redirect to my lower back when I feel a stinging pain. The guard holds me steady by my arms while something sharp pierces my skin. I crane my neck, seeing blood being wiped, and I gasp when a cold residue is sprayed on my lower back and the area goes numb; some kind of freezing powder that stops the bleeding.
“You have a microscopic tracking device in you. I’ll know everything, so don’t even think about betraying me. I’ll contact you when I need you. You keep your mouth shut about our deal and find me documentation of the Chicago Syndicate drug routes. Betray me, and Santino dies. And there’s a bounty on Adriano’s head if I die. Either way, if you don’t obey, it’ll be your fault both men die.”
My brain has a hard time grasping what’s being said.
My fingers are covered with blood from my back.
“Clean your hands and come back to my office,” Sal orders impatiently, and when I don’t move, he barks, “Now!”
I return to the bathroom while inwardly promising Santino that I’ll find a way to help him. I wash my hands hurriedly and splash water on my pale face. Fear has caused all the blood to drain from my cheeks, but I don’t have time at the moment to figure out the dangerous mafia dispute I’m in the middle of.
Running back to the office, I enter it hastily while everything is happening around me.
Sal speaks as if I’m not present. “I helped you locate her.”
Then the Capo crimine that has been looking for me shows up as well, providing me an unreadable glance. The entire conversation is odd, and I don’t understand the relationship between James, Adriano, and Sal. But Adriano keeps his promise and gets me out of there, and as I leave, Sal mock salutes me.
With James and Adriano at my side, we escape the club, and I sigh in relief and sorrow. Relief because I’m out of there. Sorrow because Santino is still stuck in there, and I don’t know what will be my fate.
“Get in, Camilla.” James motions me inside his car.
I’m not sure why, but I gaze at Adriano, wordlessly asking him to take me with him instead. He recognizes my silent plea but signals for me to go with James.
***
The rounded driveway of the Syndicate’s three-story headquarters comes into view.
Over an hour in this silent car with James peculiarly stealing glimpses of me and the lack of restraints has me wondering what his plans are for me.
He pulls the key from the ignition and turns to me as Adriano pulls up behind us. “We have a lot to talk about. Please follow me to my office.”
We head into the house. Adriano’s right behind me when we go up the stairs to James’s office on the second floor.
“Please sit, Camilla.” He points to cushioned chairs at his desk as he sits behind it.
My eyes dart around cautiously, and Adriano closes the door. I’ve never been in this large office, lined with bookcases and furnished elegantly in reddish brown wood.
“Camilla,” James demands my attention with a firm, yet gentle, tone.
I look at him, wondering my fate.
“We’re not going to hurt you. Please don’t look so distressed. I have a lot to explain, but first, are you okay? What happened with Sal?” His voice is supportive, encouraging.
“Breathe, Cam,” Adriano urges, standing close behind me.
I release the breath I was unknowingly holding. “What’s going to happen?” This is the first thing I’ve said to either one of them.
“We have a lot to discuss.” James nods his chin to the door, indicating for Adriano to leave.
My panic intensifies because I want him to stay, and my hand searches for his.
Adriano bends his head to catch my eyes.
“Can he stay?” I ask James but keep my focus on Adriano.
I hear James sighing. “Fine.”
Adriano squeezes my hand comfortingly, and we take our seats.
“Camilla, you’re going to have to talk to us about the bomb we found,” James instructs.
I swallow the brick in my throat, and Adriano leans one elbow on the armrest, rubbing his stubble as he observes me.
“That was an accident. The device fell out of my pocket that night I was outside with Fallon,” I explain honestly.
James’s eyes narrow in doubt. “What kind of bomb was it? We couldn’t find it.”
“It was a square box covered with hard, black plastic that could fit into my hand. And it was heavy.”
Adriano and James share a meaningful look, then James continues, “Were you hiding from us these last nine months?”
“Yes.” I was hiding from them too.
James’s brows climb halfway up his forehead in amazement of that revelation. “So you know who we are?”
“Yes.” This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with James. I rarely saw him while I worked here, and there was always awkwardness between us. He’d regard me in an odd way, just like he is now. For a Capo crimine, he’s got soft people skills.
“Who are we then?” Adriano asks calmly.
“The Chicago Syndicate.”
“Do you know who you are?” James comments out of the blue.
I frown at the vague and unexpected question. “What do you mean?”
“Do you know who your parents are?” James explains.
My gaze shifts back and forth between the two men. What do these men know about my parents that I don’t? I only knew my mother; Adriano’s aware of that.
“No, only my mother.” My voice is growing stronger as my stress from the day recedes.
“I know more about your father,” James reveals and leans forward.
“What, then? And what does he have to do with the bomb?” I’m completely thrown.
“I’m your father, Camilla,” James answers carefully.
My mouth drops open, and nothing comes out. James is my father? The Capo crimine of the Chicago Syndicate is my father? He’s quite in shape and doesn’t look old enough to have a twenty-eight year old daughter. But his black hair is streaked with silver, so I wonder how old he is?
“How can you be my father? How old are you?” I blurt and press my lips together.
A snicker escapes Adriano, and James sends him a damning glare.
“Old enough to be your father. I was twenty-eight when you were born.”
A million questions flow through my head. “You always knew I was your daughter?”
James angles his head to the side. “Do you mean since you were born? No. Did I know the entire time you worked here? Yes. I discovered it before I found you at your job – from which I deliberately got you fired so you would come work for me. I wanted to get to know you before I disclosed our tie, but my work absorbs most of my time, and we never got the chance.”
He gives me a moment to let it all sink in. My former employer never gave me a plausible reason for firing me,
because James probably paid him off. I remember Sal saying that the Chicago Syndicate had me guarded twenty-four seven. That would make sense if I am James’s daughter. But I need more proof.
“What’s my mom’s name? And how did you know her?” I ask.
“Claudia was her name. I met her through an acquaintance. I was also already with my wife. Your mother and I were only together for one night. After that, I never heard anything from Claudia again. Until a few years ago, when said acquaintance, whom I haven’t spoken to in years, mentioned our getaway and also told me how your mother had died and apparently left behind a daughter. I had the need to find out more about you. When I discovered your age, I knew there was a good chance you were my blood, so I tracked you down.”
I don’t consider his instinct a reliable form of proof. “I need a paternity test.”
“That’s already been done. We used a sample of your hair.” James opens a desk drawer and slides a white envelope to me.
I take the letter out and read that, by ninety-nine point nine percent, Camilla Guillermo is the biological daughter of James Dante Calderone.
Adriano hands me a glass of water, yet I didn’t even notice him moving around. Gulping down the drink, I try to process everything. I wanted to stop running. And while I’ve been dreading the worst, this envelope is good news. This is why Adriano said he isn’t going to hurt me; because I’m James’s blood. And blood is important to Italians.
I meet Adriano’s eyes, but he’s impossible to read.
James coughs, and I think he shot Adriano a dirty look.
Does James know about my past with Adriano? About my scars?
I remember that I still have Santino to consider. Biting my lip, I speculate about my options.
Shit! The tracking device Sal planted in me. What if it can transmit sound too? Can it?
If the device is tracking sound, we need to divert this conversation without exposing more information.
“Thanks for the drink. I was thirsty.” I sit forward, hold my palm out, and pretend to write on it, displaying that I need a pen and paper.
A crease forms between James’s brows, so I roll my hand, motioning for him to keep talking.
“I’ll get you more water,” James says, placing a notebook and a pen in front of me.
And I write: I’m in trouble. Sal is blackmailing me. He implanted some kind of chip in me, a tracking device. I don’t know if it transmits sound too?
I show the notebook to Adriano, whose face is right next to mine, making me achingly aware of his commanding presence.
He scowls at the piece of paper and flings the notebook on the desk for James to read.
Adriano haunches beside my chair and mouths, “Blackmailed to do what?”
I grab the notebook and scribble down: to get documents about this organization’s drug routes and the hierarchy.
And I let Adriano read what I’ve written again.
He then types in his phone and rises to his feet to share it with James, but I stop him by his arm to check what he’s typed. Trust still needs to be built among the three of us.
He places his warm hand on my thigh in reassurance, and it spreads throughout my body.
Then he shows me his phone, which reads: Call Dr. Calderone to remove the microchip from her. It’s probably not transmitting sound. I can’t imagine it is, but to be safe, let’s continue tomorrow morning? She’s also tired.
“Thank you,” I mouth, earnestly grateful for his intervention because I am overwhelmed.
James agrees unenthusiastically and lifts his phone to his ear. “Can you come over now?" he says to, I presume, Dr. Calderone and hangs up. “Take her to the private room. Rest and we’ll be with you soon.”
Adriano escorts me to the other end of the floor to the strip club that’s empty and dark.
Holding open the door to the room, he flicks on the lights. And then we’re both observing the king-size bed.
Just as he’s about to speak, James comes in. “We’ll be downstairs if you need us.” And he stands as if waiting for Adriano to accompany him out.
“I’ll be back later,” Adriano says.
Disappointment fills me, shadowed by respite, because this gives me time to reorganize my thoughts alone. I fall face down on the soft mattress. James Calderone is my father.
There are so many questions swirling around.
A knock sounds at the door after about twenty minutes, and I open it a crack but keep my palm on the handle.
James, Adriano, and the doctor wait for me to let them enter.
James introduces the doctor, “Camilla, this is Marc Calderone, our Syndicate physician and my brother.”
We shake hands, and he eyes me curiously. This is my uncle. He’s an older and thinner version of James. I suddenly have a family.
“Camilla, nice to meet you.” He gestures the length of me, silently asking where I was injected.
I point to my lower back, and he signs for me to lie on the bed.
“I’d like to examine her in private,” Marc requests.
“Adriano can stay,” I comment, and James’s lips set into a hard line.
Nine months of being on the run will make a person wary. And I want Adriano to stay.
“We’re both staying,” James answers resolutely.
I lie on the sheets on my stomach, and Adriano sits beside my head, tucking the pillow beneath my cheek.
The hem of my shirt is pulled up to expose the skin on my back. They can see my scars, and I’m sure I’ll be questioned relentlessly about the cause of those marks.
Apparently, Sal placed a bandage over the cut, because Dr. Calderone peels it off, taking dried blood and the residue that was sprayed on and has now hardened with it and tearing the wound. The wound that’s not numb anymore.
“Ah, shit!” I press my face into the pillow and feel Adriano’s hand patting my hair.
Then another hand is putting pressure on my lower back, and searing pain slashes through me.
“Motherfucker!” my muffled yell, and someone else is restraining my legs.
“Shhh. It’s over, Cam,” Adriano utters and gently strokes my hair out of my face.
I rest with my cheek on the pillow, trying to pull a steady breath into my lungs. Tears drip from my eyelashes, and Adriano wipes them away with his thumb, cupping my face. I cover his hand with mine, and so many unspoken words hang in the air around us.
However, a throat clears, splintering our moment.
“It’s an implantable microchip tracking device,” James declares, coming out of the bathroom after rinsing the chip off.
I sit up next to Adriano on the bed, and my fingers stroke the gauze on my back.
“It’s just a small incision and will heal without scarring within a few days,” Dr. Calderone explains.
“Thank you.” I scoot close to Adriano, the heat of his thigh seeping into mine. My body is overly aware of his every move, and I wonder if he feels it too.
James shows us a chip smaller than a rice grain, almost as tiny as a mustard seed, and continues, “It’s only GPS. It can’t transmit sound, so we’re safe. Sal hasn’t overheard any vital information. We can speak freely.”
Adriano takes it between his forefinger and thumb and holds it up for inspection. “This is remarkable. It’s not on the market yet. Same goes for that small bomb you got from Club 7. Where’s Sal getting these mini gadgets from?”
“A question for later,” James replies and then asks me, “Do you have any belongings we can retrieve for you?”
I shake my head. “I only have my purse and some clothes I left at my apartment.”
“Do you need them?” James probes.
“No.” Every time I moved, I had to leave possessions behind. I traveled as light as possible, only carrying the few tangible memories of my past, which are in my purse.
“Let’s rest now. You can use anything you need from the bathroom.” Adriano rises and returns the chip to James.
I miss the wa
rmth of his closeness, but I tamp the feeling down because I have more important matters at hand.
“We meet tomorrow at eight a.m. in my office.” James regards me expectantly.
“Okay,” I confirm since he’s expecting an answer from me.
The men leave, Adriano last in line, and he doesn’t even say goodbye, which bothers me immensely.
I lie back down on my stomach. What’s Adriano been doing these last nine months? Does he have a girlfriend? His uncomfortable behavior is proof that he’s found out things about me. Just exactly how much does he know? From his intense stares, I think he’s also thinking about me now. Although there was also resentment in his posture.
I didn’t even realize how much I’ve missed him until he was standing in front of me. I groan in defeat of not being able to keep my mind from wandering to him. Rubbing my face in the pillow, I try to rid him from my thoughts.
Tomorrow morning, I’m just going to hear them out, and then I can decide what and how much information I can share. What’s in my best interest? And how can I help Santino?
I’m the daughter of a powerful criminal Capo crimine, more powerful than Sal. This must change my life. I’ll use it to my advantage and bring Fat Sal down.
Now I just need a strategy to make sure Santino makes it out alive. My guilt wears me down, and weariness starts to crumble around me as I fall into a troubled sleep.
CHAPTER 14
Adriano
I close the door and leave Cam behind without looking back. If I turn and am confronted with her stricken demeanor, I’ll stay. And I’m not granted a moment alone with her by James. I’m guessing she didn’t tell him anything about us during their ride.
James, Marc, and I carry on our discussion in James’s office.
“Did you spot any other injuries on her?” James asks his brother as we stand around the chair Cam was sitting in.
“She has significant scarring on her lower back, but they aren’t newly formed.”
“I noticed them too,” James mentions with a muscle ticking in his jaw.
