by Bethany-Kris
“Olly!”
Her shout did nothing. The dog was already gone.
Cursing under her breath, Violet righted her jacket and jogged after the dog. She wasn’t going to put up with Carmine’s nonsense if she lost his dog because it wouldn’t listen to her.
Before she knew it, her sneakers crunched on dirt as she called out for the dog again. It would be a good half hour, maybe even a forty-five minute, walk back to the mansion from where she was now.
And she had already gone too far, so there was no point in turning back now.
Violet had just caught a flash of beige fur when she noticed that the lights to one of the cabins were on, making her pause. Normally Alberto would have told her if anyone was staying in them, and since they were supposed to be empty, she didn’t think twice about going up to the door, ready to knock.
But something made her pause … Instead of knocking as she had planned to do, she walked around the side, peeking through the windows there. The furniture was still covered in sheets, the place empty of anyone as far as she could see, but even still, that feeling of unease didn’t fade.
She was almost to the back of the cabin when she finally found Olly standing next to the small, rectangular window that looked into the basement. She hissed a command for him to stay, not raising her voice above a whisper, but it didn’t matter, Olly wasn’t moving. Whatever had made him run off was there in the basement, it seemed.
Getting a firm grip on his collar this time—she didn’t need him running off again—her curiosity got the best of her as she crouched down to see whatever it was that held his attention.
Carmine was in the room, along with two others that Violet couldn’t make out from where she was standing, but what surprised her the most was that Franco was in the room as well. Except, he wasn’t there by choice.
A steel table had been set up in the center of the room, a plastic tarp placed beneath it, and on that table was Franco, his arms strapped down on either side of him, his legs cuffed in the same way. A light sheen of sweat was covering his face and naked torso, and if Violet wasn’t mistaken, he was shaking as well.
There was nothing to cover his head, so his panicked, frenzied gaze was clear for them all to see. She knew she should have walked away then, put everything she was seeing to the back of her mind and act as though it had never happened. But she felt stuck, almost frozen in time as she watched the scene play out before her.
Franco wasn’t the only one in distress, however. Carmine, while off to the side, was pacing the floor, scrubbing a hand down his face every few seconds, as though he too were still trying to make sense of what was happening. He wasn’t wearing the same clothes he’d been in earlier—instead, he was in a pair of wrinkled jeans and a shirt whose logo was so faded, the original design couldn’t be made out.
He shook his head hard, muttering something that Violet couldn’t hear, but one of the men he was in the room with could. The man gestured to Carmine first, then to Franco who was now pleading, his hands in tight fists as he tried to break free of his restraints.
It was rare, Violet thought, for her brother to display such anguish. Alberto had never been easy on him that way, always demanding that Carmine act like a man, even when he was a boy. So, to see this emotion in him made Violet’s own heart seize with worry.
What was happening?
It took some convincing, or rather it was a sharp slap to the back of Carmine’s head, that finally had him crossing the room, picking up an instrument from the table near the wall. Violet crept a little closer, squinting her eyes to see better, but there was no need, not when Carmine came right back to where he had been standing, and she could now see what he was holding.
The glint of silver drew her gaze down to his hand, to the small blade she might not have noticed otherwise. It was thin, almost concealed entirely, but it was the sharpened tip that told her what it was.
A scalpel.
It was time to leave. She needed to leave, but no matter how loud the words were screamed in her own head, she remained in place, though her grip on Olly’s collar tightened just a little more.
Carmine approached slowly, as though this was the last thing he wanted, his face reflecting each plea that was shouted from Franco’s mouth. He stopped just at the edge of the table, and though he was looking at Franco, he couldn’t meet his eyes—that was one place he refused to look.
He raised his instrument, his hands shaking as he brought it down to Franco’s chest, resting it right in the middle, but he didn’t cut, not yet. Or at least not before he mouthed an apology that would mean nothing in the next few seconds. Because once he finally dragged that blade down, blood welling immediately as Franco’s skin split open, he screamed, a blood-curdling yell that even Violet could hear.
One of the other men in the room rushed forward, clamping a hand over Franco’s mouth to muffle his cries of pain, even as he used his substantial weight to hold a thrashing Franco still. Carmine didn’t remove the blade until he reached the man’s abdomen, then backed away, his face a little greener than it had been before.
But that was only the first, because very soon, that scalpel was replaced with bolt cutters, and Carmine had to return to his once childhood friend.
Nausea churned heavily in her stomach, threatening to spill out of her in a moment’s notice. Finally, when she saw Carmine position the metal around one of Franco’s ribs, she squeezed her eyes shut just as he snapped it free.
Scrambling backward, Violet dragged Olly with her as she hurried away, breathing heavily through her nose as she tried to quell her need to vomit what little she had eaten that day.
Maybe it was the fact that Olly sensed Violet’s distress, but the dog didn’t fight to return to the cabin as she pulled him back to the pathways. She couldn’t run fast enough, couldn’t make her mind forget the images burning their way into her retinas.
Even when she closed her eyes, it was still there.
All of it.
Swallowing convulsively, she desperately willed the vomit to stay away. The burning prickle of tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away.
Once her sneakers hit the stone pathways again, she took a deep breath. It didn’t help. She might have been back in the safe zone, but she felt anything but okay.
How was she supposed to sit at the dinner table later with her brother, knowing what she did, seeing what she had?
Oh, God.
Violet was three-quarters of the way back to the mansion when she nearly rammed right into her father as they both came around a blind turn in the path. She was moving much faster than Alberto was.
“Slow down, Violet,” her father said, chuckling.
It didn’t sound true.
She schooled her features, knowing her panic and fear had to be written on her face as clear as day.
“Daddy,” she greeted fast.
Too fast.
Too high.
Too breathless.
Alberto frowned. “What’s wrong, dolcezza?”
Violet shook her head, her gaze dropping down to the item her father held in his hands. It looked like a white gift box with a top that could be removed. It even had a fucking bow on it.
Why did he have that?
What was he going to put in that box?
“Violet,” Alberto said harshly.
“Nothing is wrong,” she said quickly. “Olly got away from me, but I caught him. I just thought I should bring him back to the house.”
Alberto looked over her shoulder, down the pathways. A dark distance colored up his eyes as he asked, “You didn’t go further than I approved, right?”
“Of course not.”
“And Olly?”
“He was chasing a squirrel. He gave up at the wicker bench.”
Alberto still didn’t look pleased with her answer, but Violet had the distinct feeling her father wouldn’t question her on the lie. After all, he would have to explain what she saw. He would need to confirm it had happened.
He wouldn’t do that, she knew.
“Supper is almost ready,” Alberto said. “Go back to the mansion and wash up. You look tired—are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine, Daddy,” she assured.
Lies.
She was so far from fine it was ridiculous.
Violet’s gaze dropped to the box Alberto held again. She knew better than to ask, but with the shock of the day, her mouth worked before her brain could tell it to stop. “What’s that for?”
“A gift,” Alberto said simply, offering nothing else. “I need to collect it.”
Jesus.
Usually, more than an hour in his father’s presence and Kaz would be more than ready to go anywhere else, but for once he didn’t feel that pressing need as he sat opposite the man in the warehouse they used to do business. It wasn’t often that the pair were in this place at the same time, liability and all that, but for whatever reason, Vasily had demanded that Kaz come along.
And he had invited Ruslan.
Since Vasily already seemed to be in a mood, not to mention the cryptic shit he had spoken earlier, Kaz hadn’t asked why. And for the first time in ages, he didn’t question the order when it was given to him.
Now as he sat at the table occupied with a few of the higher ranking members in the Bratva, he let his thoughts wander, and it was of no surprise to him that they went to Violet. It felt wrong almost—thinking of her, considering present company—like his thoughts of her would be written all over his face.
But he couldn’t help himself.
Already, he’d pulled his phone out, scrolling down to her contact and staring at the number, tempted to shoot her a text, but for whatever reason, he had been unable to do it, at least not yet—not when he was in a room full of men that, while sharing his oath with the Bratva, he didn’t completely trust.
He had learned the hard way about who to give his trust to.
Years ago, back when he was first trying to earn his stars, Kaz had confided in a man by the name of Vadim. They had been around the same age, both trying to work their way into Vasily’s good graces—because in the end, it didn’t matter that Kaz was his son, if he didn’t do the work, he would never become a part of the Bratva, despite what people thought.
It wasn’t that the information Kaz had shared with him was of any importance, at least not to anyone but Kaz himself, but Vadim had taken it upon himself to share Kaz’s words with Vasily, thinking that it would earn him favor from the Pakhan.
It hadn’t. If anything, it only exposed the man for what he was.
But it had taught Kaz an important lesson, one that he hadn’t really understood until that point.
There was no honor amongst thieves.
Ruslan’s arrival dragged Kaz back to the present, and to the fact that he hadn’t arrived alone. There was another man coming in before him—Ruslan rarely let anyone walk at his back—carrying a gift. Kaz nodded to Ruslan as his brother took the seat beside him, but most of his focus was on the white box wrapped with red ribbon that the no-name soldier was carrying over to Vasily.
When his offering was placed on the table, he made his leave rather quickly, though it was clear he wanted to stay and see what was inside of it.
This, apparently, was what Vasily had been waiting on. There was a note tucked into the bow of the ribbon, but as Vasily plucked it free, he didn’t bother with the box at all, merely opened the note and began to read.
“Sacrifice,” his voice rang out amongst the quiet of the room, “is at the heart of repentance. Without deeds, your apology is worthless. Bryan Davis.”
Who the fuck was Bryan Davis?
“As you may all have been aware, one of our own was attacked two nights ago,” Vasily said, dropping the note on the table, his gaze sliding over every man in the room—well at least everyone besides Ruslan.
But no one would have noticed that, no one except Kaz. Kaz also didn’t miss that Vasily hadn’t personalized his words—“our own” instead of “my son”.
“I am not one to allow such acts to go unpunished, but I have learned with great patience comes great reward. There was no need for retribution,” Vasily said, this time his gaze lingering on Kaz. “Not when we do not have to dirty our hands. We are Vory v Zakone, others do our work for fear of what we may do next.”
Kaz had to stifle an eye roll. Vasily was known for his dramatics, but this was just over the top, and more than anything, he was just ready for the box to be opened so he could see what was inside.
“This,” he went on, pointing to the box in front of him, “is a gift given to me, but I believe that it is one worth sharing—and after all, this gift is as much Ruslan’s as it is mine. So please, Ruslan, if you would do the honors.”
Ruslan had never liked the spotlight, much preferring to blend into the background, but as all eyes turned to him, he cleared his throat and stood, hand going out to catch the box as Vasily slid it across the table toward him.
His brother didn’t waste time with theatrics, just pulled the ribbons free, then the top and tossed it on the table, his eyes searching the contents.
There was a moment of disbelief, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, then he was reaching inside, drawing out the bag inside, holding it up for them all to see.
Red.
That was the first thing that popped into Kaz’s head as he saw the package, but as he blinked, his brain finally catching up to what he was actually seeing, he rubbed his own chest.
The Italians had sent them Franco’s heart.
With a heavy huff, Violet dropped her messenger bag onto the seat and took the other right beside it. Nicole barely looked up from the laptop she was typing on, and Amelia, sitting beside her, kept her eyes down on her phone. Both girls already had to-go cups of lattes sitting in front of them, and another was waiting for Violet.
She picked the cup up, taking a sip of the Chai latte and letting the sweetness of the drink roll over her taste buds.
“Damn, thanks,” she said as she pulled the cup away. “I needed that.”
Nicole didn’t look away from the laptop. “How’d the test go?”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Terribly, no doubt.”
Whether she liked it or not, Violet was going to have to let her father know that her grades were slipping in school before the college gave him a call because she wasn’t keeping up the average he demanded. The school wouldn’t want to lose out on his regular donations, after all. With everything that was going on around her, she just couldn’t focus like she needed to.
Alberto wouldn’t be pleased.
It didn’t help that Violet wasn’t sleeping well nearly a week after witnessing a man’s chest be cut open at her brother’s hand—a man her friend had been involved with for a good year.
Violet passed Amelia a look, noting the dark circles under her friend’s eyes, and her slightly disheveled clothes. Obviously, her friend wasn’t sleeping well, if the way she looked was any indication to go by.
“Your dad is going to be pissed that you’re flunking the semester,” Nicole said.
Violet barely held back her scowl. “Thanks for the memo.”
Nicole tipped her head in Amelia’s direction. “Not the only one, though.”
“Does Vito know yet?” Violet asked Amelia.
Her friend acted like she didn’t even hear her question.
Nicole openly frowned, glancing at the phone in Amelia’s hand. “Still no answer, huh?”
Finally, Amelia gave a response. Just a shake of her head, no words.
“Who?” Violet asked.
Nicole mouthed, “Franco.”
Oh.
Damn.
All it took was Franco’s name and Violet was right back to where she started a week ago when she watched from outside the cabin as his blood spilled to the basement floor. She tried to counteract the automatic reaction of panic and disgust swelling up into her throat, threatening to send the Chai latte back out of her sto
mach.
Violet cleared her throat, and glanced away.
“I don’t understand,” Amelia said quietly.
Her voice …
So soft, pained, and confused.
It hurt Violet.
While she was angry with her friend because of what she had lied about, and what it caused, she didn’t think Amelia deserved to be left in limbo like she was. Why hadn’t someone—Amelia’s father, even—spoke up and told her the truth about Franco?
That he was dead.
His punishment was his life.
“He never waits this long to text me back,” Amelia said, looking up from her phone.
Nicole passed Violet a look. She wondered if her other friend knew the truth like she did. Nicole couldn’t have possibly seen what she had, obviously, but she could know Franco was dead.
Violet just couldn’t bring herself to tell Amelia.
“He’s probably lying low,” Nicole said, her tone thick. “Keeping out of trouble after everything.”
Amelia nodded, but she didn’t look like she believed it.
Violet didn’t blame her.
Chances were, Amelia knew exactly why Franco wasn’t answering her calls and messages. But given the relationship she had with him, Amelia wasn’t willing to let him go.
It wasn’t the first time a man had gone missing from the Gallucci ranks without so much as a word or a goodbye to the people who loved him. Others had suffered a similar fate for reasons beyond Violet’s knowledge. For a while, people wouldn’t talk about the man, simply turn cheek to the disappearance and hope he returned eventually.
And then a body might show up.
Washed up on a river bank, hands cut off.
Found in a garbage bin, dismembered into pieces.
Resting in a shallow grave, a bullet between his eyes.
Franco wasn’t the first, but he was the only one that Violet had been privy to seeing happen. With the others that had gone from their family’s ranks, she hadn’t been all that touched by it because it was like a passing moment to her. Something that happened, but didn’t really affect her because she hadn’t been a part of it.
