“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I have a photo. Several. You and him, in a private and very heated discussion.”
He studies me as closely, left eye narrowing infinitesimally. Then he laughs, just a quick burst of air as he shakes his head.
“It was a charity event. I’d been invited for my contribution. I can’t dictate who the opera allows in and who they bar from entry, now can I?”
“So, you just coincidentally happen to be there at the same time as the man who murdered your brother, your sister-in-law, your niece and nephews? And you’re able to hold a conversation with him knowing he’s responsible? Knowing what he did to my mother?” That last part I force out, blocking the emotion that wants to worm its way into my words.
“What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“I don’t know, Uncle.”
“Where is this photo? How did you get it?”
“Doesn’t matter. What were you talking about?”
“Quite honestly, I was taken by surprise when he, his soldiers, and those two Cartel brothers arrived at the box where I sat with the president of the charity. He came to pour salt into the wound, Cristiano. My anger got the better of me. I told him in no uncertain terms that one day, I would kill him.”
“This lasted seven minutes?” The time was stamped on the photos.
“How dare you!”
“Look around you, Uncle. I was betrayed tonight. Again.”
“And you think it was me? I didn’t even fucking know where you were!” he pauses, glances around then lowers his voice. “Have you thought of Alec? Have you wondered how he managed to survive considering they made sure no one else did? The rest were killed execution style. No room for error when you have a fucking bullet in your head. Have you considered maybe it was him?”
“I consider everything,” I say, somehow calm. “I have to. What else were you talking to Rinaldi about at the opera? Seven minutes is a long fucking time.”
“I already told you. And if you doubt that I was as impacted by the murders of your family, then you’re having a brain hemorrhage.” He leans in close, pokes his finger against my chest. “Remember who saved your fucking life.”
“Yeah, I remember. Dante.”
“No, not Dante. He found you. I’m the one who made sure you were kept safe and protected while you couldn’t defend yourself. I made sure you were taken care of, made sure you were out of sight until you were strong enough to stand on your own, to take back what was stolen from you and to avenge your family. You think Dante didn’t want to go after them? You think I didn’t want revenge? I protected him too. Saved his life too when he’d have thrown it away going after those fuckers. I knew all along we needed to wait for you. We couldn’t take that from you, and that’s the truth of it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything but hate for the family who killed my family.”
I look beyond him to the waves of the ocean. I scrub my face, take a deep breath. It makes sense what he’s saying.
The tattoo I scribbled badly on my arm throbs. My uncle’s name. But if I look at him now, if I recall how he looked when he told me about last night, he was as surprised as I. And he’s my own blood. My father’s brother.
“Look, it’s been a stressful few days. Scarlett’s missing. I can guess who has her. You’re under a lot of pressure. And I haven’t helped when it comes to her. I know that. But believe me, Cristiano, I have no ulterior motive. You’re the closest thing I have to a son. I’d never betray you.”
I nod. It’s all I can do. Right now, I have to get Scarlett back. That’s my first priority. All this I’ll process later.
“Let’s go,” I say.
We walk in silence the rest of the way to the chopper and climb inside. The pilot lifts off the ground as soon as we’re inside and I think about the last time we were in the chopper heading to my wedding.
How things change in a matter of hours. Minutes. Seconds.
How life turns upside down and inside out, spitting out what’s left of us after it’s chewed up everything that matters.
2
Scarlett
Murmurs and quiet whimpers are the sounds I hear. The smell is dank, like sweat and something else, something rotten. When I’m jostled violently, those whimpers swell to a joint scream followed a few moments later by the sounds of someone retching.
I blink. Turn my head. My neck is sore, my shoulders, back and arms aching. I groan, try to bring my hand to my face but my wrists are bound behind my back. As my eyes open and the room comes into focus, I remember why.
I remember Marcus. Remember my uncle.
And Marcus killing my uncle.
I move backward through time and memory, remembering farther back to the room at that house. My bath. Cutting my foot on the shards of glass from the bottle Cristiano destroyed.
Our wedding night.
Cristiano accusing me of being a whore on our wedding night.
Something inside me twists but I don’t linger because there’s another one of those swells and panic grips me. I struggle to sit up just as we crash down and water sprays the windows, splashing through the one where the glass is missing. We’re on a boat. A stinking, old, decrepit boat.
The women around me scream as I take it all in.
The stench. It almost makes my nostrils burn. Dirty mattresses line the floor, two or three women taking up each one. I look at their faces. Some can’t be older than fifteen. Sixteen. I’m not sure who looks more terrified, though.
Some are quiet, staring ahead wide-eyed. Some are sobbing. Many have bruises on their faces, or on bits of exposed skin. Almost none of us are wearing shoes I realize.
“You okay?” the voice to my right croaks.
I look over at the girl. At twenty-two I must be one of the oldest ones in here. I nod to her, and she holds up a bottle of water. It’s almost empty.
I lick my lips, nod.
She stretches her arms out to me. She’s bound too, but her wrists are in front of her.
I drink a sip of the lukewarm, stale tasting water. “Thank you.”
She can’t be more than sixteen, I think, and beneath the dirt and bruises and fear, she’s beautiful.
“Are you okay?”
Tears spill down her cheeks. “I want to go home,” she says with a noticeable accent.
My eyes fill up looking at her. Looking at all of them. I feel responsible for them. Like this is my fault. Like this is something I need to somehow fix.
I shiver and she reaches behind me with her bound wrists, tugs at something. I look back at it. It’s a man’s jacket.
She pulls it over my shoulders, the lining cool against my skin as I lean back against the wall. “Thank you.” With my next breath, I smell the subtle scent of a familiar aftershave just beneath that of vomit and urine and fear.
“Where are they taking us?” I ask the girl sharing my mattress.
She shakes her head. “We’ve been on the boat for a while. And before that, the truck. I don’t know how long it’s been anymore.”
Is Cristiano looking for me? Does he know what’s happened? And who was the man with Marcus? The one who told him to cover me up. The man whose jacket I’m wearing.