The Woman in the Trunk

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "Was that him leaving?"

  "Probably. Come on. Let's stretch those legs. I think we need to scrounge up some triple antibiotic for that ankle too. It's getting raw. Those shackles are filthy."

  I felt a shudder move through me, thinking of the sweat and blood and who knew what else from an unknown number of men were on those cuffs.

  "Why doesn't he just deal with me now?" I asked as we sat at the kitchen table, a spare blanket wrapped around my shoulders as I ate plain oatmeal and tried to pretend it wasn't disgusting. It was food. That was all that mattered.

  "He probably isn't sure yet how to handle it."

  "Because he wants to keep making money off the bakery?"

  "Seems like it might be part of it."

  "I can run the business with the owner in absentia," I told Christopher, getting a raised brow from him. "I've looked into it. It seemed smart to know my rights when my father was involved with people who frequently make people go missing. There are all kinds of loopholes about how if I have a key and access to the accounts and such, I can keep it running until he returns."

  "Doesn't seem like a forever sort of plan."

  "No. When someone is missing for ten years, you can file for them to be declared dead. After another ten years from then, they will do so if they never show up. So that's a twenty-year plan."

  "And after twenty years?"

  "After twenty years, I am the sole beneficiary to my father's will." I knew that because my mother had insisted on him drawing up the documents when she'd been alive still. Just in case.

  "Well, that sounds like a good plan then. Tell that to the boss like you told that to me. He might be hot-tempered, but he is all about the money."

  Right.

  The money.

  The money that would likely be doubled just because of the hassle I caused.

  Money I would never be able to produce.

  Not without Lorenzo and his deal.

  Even then, though, I would be looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next minion of Arturo Costa's to catch me alone and accost me simply because he could.

  As much as a big part of me wanted to stay, wanted to work it out, wanted to be able to continue the legacy my family had created, the other part of me knew I would never feel safe, would never feel comfortable with the arrangement.

  I had to go.

  But it would make everything easier if I could have that meeting with Arturo, give him my reassurances, spout off all these facts I knew, agree to his terms.

  Then walk out of this house a free woman.

  No trying to find a way to escape.

  Then, once I was sure I wasn't being followed, hop on a bus or train and get the hell out of here.

  Sure, I had the same problem as I did when I had tried to escape the last time. No money. No cards. No nothing. Unless one of them was willing to go into Lorenzo's apartment to grab them for me. Let's face it, the chances of that weren't great.

  Still, this time, the possibility of living on a street sounded preferable to being under the thumb of a ruthless mob boss.

  I would figure it out.

  I always did.

  That was my superpower.

  "When do you think he will make time for me?"

  "Honestly? Hard to say," Chris told me, shrugging his tired shoulders. "He won't forget about you completely, but it might be a day or two before he makes the time for you."

  "Okay," I agreed, taking a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for that possibility. "I'm really regretting this fashion choice," I admitted, looking down at my dress. "That basement is freezing."

  "I'll leave the door open as much as I can. Let some warmer air in. Plus you won't feel so alone."

  "You're a good guy. Has anyone told you that lately?" I asked.

  "You just did," he told me, taking my bowl over to the sink. "Go hit the john one more time. Here," he added, going under the sink to grab me a fresh cleaning rag. "You'll feel more human if you can do a little washing up," he told me, shrugging, grabbing another rag. I figured for himself since he hadn't had a chance to go back to his place to shower or change either. The two of us were going to be pretty gross if this went on another day or two.

  Whore's bath completed, I made my way back down the stairs with Chris behind me smelling like dish soap and stale coffee.

  My ass immediately objected to the hard floor as I lowered down.

  A day and a half passed.

  Chris left the door open much of the time, and he was right. It felt better seeing another person, even if that person was sitting in a leather chair, dozing off for twenty-minute spells at a time.

  I knew how unsatisfying that kind of rest was. Because that was all I was getting as well, always jerking awake when my head would fall forward, my chin hitting my chest, sending a shooting pain up the back of my neck.

  Eventually, after a few hours of that, we both resigned ourselves to groggy consciousness, him giving me a regretful look as he slid the door closed when there were footsteps on the floor above.

  Arturo didn't come down to see me that day, that night.

  So, as was becoming our ritual, when he went to bed, I was brought up to use the bathroom, gratefully brushing my teeth side-by-side with Chris when he found some extra brushes and paste in the linen closet, washing all my important parts when he left to grab us food.

  We sat in companionable silence, jumping at every noise, as we ate.

  Maybe I should have run away then.

  But there was no window to sneak out of in the bathroom.

  And un-cuffing myself and trying to escape in front of Chris put him in a bad position. He would either have to let me go, in which case he would be in major trouble with his boss. Or he would have to try to retrieve me, which would bring the other guards in on it, would make things messier. And I was not so vain as to think I could escape Chris as well as the two or three other guards that were always hanging around. And then what would become of me?

  I couldn't take that chance.

  If I did need to escape, I had to be smart about it.

  But I told myself I would try to get through a meeting with Arturo first.

  If that failed, then I would make my escape.

  Until then, I had to learn to accept the confinement, the endlessly slow hours of the day, the helplessness. And be thankful for Chris's kindness, his loyalty to Lorenzo even when there seemed to be no proof that Lorenzo was alive.

  The piercing in my chest at that was enough to make me nearly miss a step on the way down the stairs, Chris's quick reflexes the only thing keeping me from falling down the steps, and both of us from being found out.

  "Hopefully not too much longer," Chris said, giving me a weary smile that neither of us was buying.

  Anything akin to hope died around the third day of absolutely nothing from Arturo Costa. Like he had forgotten me entirely.

  To be fair, he spent most of his days and nights out of the house, seemingly coming in just to charge up the stairs to his bedroom.

  Invariably, I would hear one of his guards inside the house, going upstairs, coming back down, and talking on the phone, ordering food.

  You notice a lot of things stuck in a quiet house, listening to all of its secrets.

  Like the fact that Arturo probably had an enlarged prostate given how often he got up to use the bathroom each night.

  Like there was the telltale skittering of mice somewhere in the basement.

  Like the boss of the Costa family, apparently, had a nut allergy, judging by the way the guard who ordered would always make sure the meals were nut-free.

  Like one of the guards let himself in the house in the middle of the night to watch—of all things—reruns of I Dream of Jeannie.

  Like the other guard, apparently, sometimes snuck away at night to go screw some girl a block over.

  I cataloged all of this, clinging to each bit of information because it was all I had in the world at that point.

  On the fourth da
y, I heard footsteps on the stairs.

  I should have been filled with dread, should have had my stomach tightening, my heart hammering.

  What did I feel instead?

  Relief.

  Because, one way or another, I was going to get out of this goddamn basement.

  Maybe that would be freely and with Arturo's blessing.

  Maybe that would be under the cover of night while I snuck out.

  Or maybe it would be with parts of me in garbage bags.

  But it was out.

  Out was all I cared about at that point.

  "Christ. When was the last time you showered?" Arturo's voice called, making me stiffen, having an idea I knew what was to follow. "Go home. Clean up. You can't represent this family looking like that."

  And there it was.

  The order I expected.

  I was completely on my own now.

  Christopher would come back. Of course he would. But maybe it would be too late at that point. And if I survived this meeting, I would likely have a new guard, one who didn't care if I ate or used the bathroom. At least temporarily, until Chris could get him to leave.

  I took a deep breath, making sure the handcuff key was safely tucked under my tongue, looking up as the door slid open.

  Arturo Costa looked rough.

  Dark circles framed his eyes even though he had seemed to spend most of his time in bed. His skin was pale, his face bloated. Likely from all that crappy food he'd been ordering. And not to mention all the alcohol I was sure he'd been drinking.

  "What? No pleading for your life?" he asked, voice low, almost bored-sounding.

  I couldn't help but wonder if that was because Lorenzo wasn't around. Clearly, Lorenzo was the workhorse of the family, was the one who handled the day-to-day operations of a massive criminal empire.

  Arturo was the sort to sit on his throne and look down at all the peasants, not the sort to actually work. He thought he was above all of that. But now he had no choice but to deal with it all.

  Good.

  I was glad he was struggling.

  I hoped he hated every moment of it.

  "I'm too cold and tired," I told him, letting my voice be a little weaker than I wanted it to.

  I was a woman with some pride. I had been doing so much my whole life, handling everything for everyone, never breaking under the pressure. It killed me not to be able to lift my chin, to give him direct eye-contact, to let my attitude slip into my voice.

  But men like Arturo Costa, they liked women small and weak and subservient.

  I had to play my part if I wanted to survive.

  "Well, that will make you think twice about trying to involve yourself in business that has nothing to do with you."

  Nothing to do with me.

  Meanwhile, I had been the one kidnapped because of said business.

  Asshole.

  "Am I going to stay down here forever?" I asked, going ahead and forcing my lower lip to tremble.

  "That depends."

  "On?"

  "Many things. You are currently the reason I will be out of a not unsubstantial sum of money every month."

  "I was actually thinking about that," I started, then launched into it, making sure not to sound too sure of myself, mumbling a lot, kneecapping my sentences.

  In the end, he was quiet for a long moment.

  "Why would you know all of that?" he asked, suspicious.

  "My father would sometimes leave town without notice for days or even weeks," I claimed. It was pure and utter bullshit, but I damn near believed myself when I said it. "I was always worried about our business, about our debts," I added, looking up at him.

  "He was never very reliable. I will think about it," he told me, turning, making his way to the door.

  "For how long?"

  "However the fuck long I want to think about it. Couple days. Couple weeks. Get comfortable. I'm not done punishing you for what you've done. You need to learn your lesson before we can talk about the next steps."

  With that, the door slammed, locked.

  I really thought I had him.

  I thought I was convincing enough.

  Maybe I had been.

  But then I'd made a mistake.

  I'd questioned him.

  To men like Arturo Costa, the world revolved around them. Your time meant nothing.

  Shit.

  Days? I could handle days.

  Weeks? I wasn't so sure about that.

  And I didn't think I could handle months, either, if those months were going to be filled with men coming in to punish me.

  He had made the decision for me, then.

  I had to escape.

  The question was just how. And when.

  After Arturo went up to bed, of course.

  I had a key to the cuffs on my wrists, but the shackle on my ankle had a bigger lock.

  I couldn't claim to be a master at picking locks, but I had needed to open my apartment door with a bobby pin more than a few times when I rushed out of the house too quickly, forgetting my keys as I went.

  I didn't have a bobby pin, though.

  But once I got the cuffs off, I might be able to rig the key up or parts of the cuffs up to get in the keyhole.

  Or I could see about trying to work the pin out of the wall.

  On that thought, I listened for a moment, making sure there was no one else about to charge in, then turned, inspected the wall.

  Someone had reinforced the cinderblock around the hole they'd made, smooth cement grabbing at the sides of the rusty pin.

  If I had something to use to knock it around, I might be able to loosen it.

  But I didn't exactly have any tools.

  The sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs had me turning back, my heart going into overdrive.

  I didn't have a lot of time to build my anxiety, though, because the door was pushing open, and someone was walking in.

  He was tall and fit, but on the thinner side, with dark hair, dark eyes, tattoos peeking out from the neck of his black t-shirt.

  The t-shirt was what was weird.

  Not only a t-shirt, but jeans. Tims.

  I'd seen a lot of men associated with this family, they always dressed in suits, they always looked like they were on their way to very important meetings.

  Was it a good or bad thing that this man looked like he was about to go commit some crime?

  He was good looking and on the younger side, closer to Lorenzo's age than Arturo's.

  "Who are you?" I asked, hearing a weariness in my voice that betrayed my exhaustion, my fear.

  "Brio," he told me, coming to a stop a few feet away. "You and me, we were supposed to meet before this," he told me, squatting down, resting his forearms on his knees.

  "You were who was originally supposed to kidnap me," I decided, remembering Lorenzo telling me that the guy he'd replaced had been vicious.

  That was who I was looking at.

  A man that made a man like Lorenzo feel morally superior.

  Great.

  That was just great.

  "That's me," he agreed, giving me a small smile. "I got rid of that pedo's body too," he added, like this was the most normal, natural conversation to have. About a tortured and murdered man to a woman who was chained to a wall in the basement of a mafia boss's house.

  Hell, maybe to him, it was.

  "Oh, really?" I asked. "Um, thanks."

  "Little boss man did the work. Looks like he enjoyed himself doing it, too. Cut his cock off," he added, nodding, clearly impressed with the brutality of Lorenzo's actions. "But he skinned it first. That's just," he said, bringing his fingers up to his lips to do a chef's kiss, "perfect. Wish I had thought of that one before. Peeled balls before. But the cock, that is a boss move," he told me. "Oh, he cut that ugly ass mark off the bastard's hand too. Real carefully. Got every millimeter of that thing. Shoved it in his mouth. Real masterful work. Wish I could have been there."

  "Did you come here to tel
l me the body is taken care of?" I asked, confused.

  "Nah. Actually, might be in trouble if that shit gets around too much. Don't worry about me, they need me too much to stick me down in a basement to rot. Just came to take my shift. Figured I'd introduce myself."

  With that, he moved to stand, turning, going to make his way back to the door.

  It was then that I saw something sticking out of his back pocket.

  Something in a brown wrapper with red, white, and blue writing.

  A Snickers bar.

  "Hey, Brio," I called, making him turn back.

  "Yeah, doll?"

  "Could I maybe have that?" I asked, pointing with my cuffed hands. "The candy bar," I added, going ahead and letting my voice get small again. "I'm so hungry," I said, eyes wide.

  "Oh shit. Forgot I had that. Got a bad sweet tooth. Yeah, sure, here," he said, tossing it to me, giving me a smile when I managed to grab it out of the air.

  "Thank you."

  "Don't mention it. Hey, nice shoes," he told me, jerking his chin toward my heels before walking out, closing, and locking the door.

  I wasn't actually hungry.

  And while I did love a good Snickers bar, had earned one with all the shit I had been through, I didn't want it to eat.

  No.

  Something had just clicked when I'd seen it.

  See.

  I could get free.

  I could run.

  I could give up my entire life.

  I could live in fear that Arturo's ego might mean he would look for me.

  I could do that.

  But why should I have to?

  Why should I—the only person in this entire situation who was innocent in every way—have to settle for that?

  Why did Arturo, the guiltiest of all of us, get to get off Scot-free?

  This man with blood on his hands?

  This man who would look the other way when he had a rapist on his payroll?

  This man who would ruthlessly stick a gun in his son's face and pull the trigger?

  The answer was simple.

  He shouldn't.

  He shouldn't get away with it.

  I couldn't let him get away with it.

  Really, I had very little left to live for.

  So while there was a lot of risk in trying to take down a man like Arturo Costa, it wasn't like I had a husband or kids or even a pet to leave behind that might miss me. And even if I died, I'd have done so taking out one of the worst human beings anyone had ever had the displeasure of crossing paths with.