Bad Sons

by Isla Cristeon

  My father’s eyes move to my mother, then shift back to Frank. “What do you want? I’ll give you anything.”

  A brief flash of triumph moves across Franco’s features. “Simple. Your confession.”

  “There’s nothing to confess,” my father grates out.

  Franco tightens his arms across his chest and glances at Abram. His smile widens as he turns back to my father. “You know, Donnie stuck to the same story. Damn near wore Abram out trying to get anything out of him, but he had nothing to say.”

  My mother bucks against Abram and screams, “What did you do to Clara?”

  With a look of boredom, Abram presses the side of her face into the mattress, slightly muffling her screams. “Knock it off,” he says in a low tone.

  “Abram didn’t touch Clara,” Frank says matter of factly. “By the time they got to this level, Don had already managed to get rid of his wife. He sacrificed her in order to save himself.”

  My father blinks, his mouth forming a small O. “What do you mean, sacrificed?”

  “This ain’t vocabulary time, Fonso. I don’t need to spell it out for you.”

  I hope to God this is all part of the act, and the game hasn’t taken a darker turn than anyone anticipated. But I know Aida is watching everything, and I relax slightly in the assurance that she’ll stop this if it reaches a dangerous point.

  My chest widens with ragged breaths as I work to deepen my shallow inhales and calm myself. Knots of anxiety twist in my stomach, and thanks to the gag, I can’t ask any clarifying questions. All I can do is trust my mother’s life in the enemies’ hands. Belatedly, I consider that those hands also include ones belonging to the woman I love.

  “Money,” my father says through his teeth. “Power, women, name it. It’s yours.”

  Frank squares his jaw. “I don’t want any of that. Like I said, a simple confession. My wife was raped by two men of yours. One of them was named Paco. He died in a freak accident last year.”

  Abram chuckles darkly.

  “I need the name of the other man,” Franco says.

  Seconds pass with the two old friends looking at one another, facing off with threads of history hanging between them, their roles reversed from the powerful to the powerless.

  My father’s upper lip twists into a sneer. “I don’t know.”

  With a slow blink, Frank shadows his eyes, but I don’t miss the way the corner of his lip tilts upward as he slams the door to the closet shut. “I was hoping you’d say that. Abram,” his eyes tilt to the massive man on top of my mother, “hope you got enough juice to keep going.”

  Many minutes later, my strained vocal cords reach their limit as I continue bellowing unintelligible threats and curses through the gag. At first, I tried going limp in hopes Aida would see and end the game, but nothing happened. Every move I made upward earned me a slam to the ground under Frank’s boot. And now, helpless tears and snot drip from my face as my mother shrieks and fights against the assaulting man on top of her.

  She did nothing to deserve this. Raw, searing anger courses through my body in violent waves, held in check only by the binds cutting into my skin, and the relentless thump of the boot against my chest when I move. Soon, her cries of pain turn into silence and all I hear is the soft squeaking of the bed springs. My gagged shouts mingle with my father’s muffled yells from behind the door. Frank leaves my side for a moment, then swings open the closet.

  “His name is Vincent,” my father spits out, his eyes wild and rimmed in red. “Vincent Ambrozio. God, just stop, please.”

  Frank eyes my father, then turns back to the bed where my mother's soft sobs can be heard under Abram. He doesn’t signal for Abram to stop, but only watches for a moment, his lip curled in dissatisfaction.

  His blank gaze swings back to my father. “I thought I’d feel something seeing your wife raped and hearing your confession.” Frank’s brows lower in thought. “But I think I need more. Your man Paco, the one we already killed, he was the last one to rape Mira. He was cruel. He sodomized my wife as he choked the life from her. It seems only fair you watch the same happen to yours.”

  In the time Franco stood in front of my father, I’d gotten to my feet, not sparing a glance at Abram’s back where my mother lay beneath him. I could at least give her the dignity of not watching her humiliation.

  Bending forward, I grip my hands together and drive the bindings against my back. The thin plastic cuts deeper into my wrists, but doesn’t give. One more sharp hit against my tailbone snaps the zip tie free, and within seconds, I tug the restraints off my ankles and knees.

  At some point, the game turned from a controlled illusion I stupidly believed, to an all-out carnage I helped orchestrate. Like delicacies on a platter, I served innocent members of my family to these men, and they dangled them like meaningless bait, as promised. They’ve already burned through Clara and Bea, and God only knows if my aunt and cousin survived Franco’s ruthless feast of vengeance.

  As such, Abram isn’t my target. I already know I can’t beat him, but if I can kill Franco Prospero before Abram gets to me, I can eliminate the orchestrator of this threat.

  I launch myself across the room. Franco is quick to turn, his shoulder bumping against the edge of the closet door. He throws an elbow at me as I envelope his back, but I ignore the crushing pain against my ribs, locking my arms in a chokehold around his neck.

  Our bodies slam against the closet door, fully sealing my father inside. Frank bashes the back of his head against my face, his skull cracking a bone in my nose. I ignore the blood streaming down my mouth as his hands claw at my hold around his neck, raking bloody ribbons through my skin.

  Steeling my nerves, I loosen my hold, moving my hand from where it's anchored on my bicep, and using it to grip Franco’s chin. My other hand is already bracing the back of his head. I’ve only seen this done in movies. All I have to do is pull in opposite directions to snap his neck.

  And then I can focus my fury on Abram, which he’s already proven his superiority, so I don’t see that going well.

  Abram moves off the bed and raises his hands in a calming gesture, walking toward us. “Fernando, hey. Don’t do that. What’s going on, man?”

  Vaguely, I notice Abram’s jeans are fully covering him. The fly isn’t hanging open as I expected. My gaze travels to my mother, but instead of a tear-streaked, terrified expression, her eyes are only widened in surprise as she watches me.

  Between my hands, Franco doesn’t struggle. His body relaxes in my grip, almost in acceptance.

  “Do it, Navarre,” Frank says on a low growl.

  I tighten my hold further, but he still doesn’t try getting away. Clarity unravels as I see this for the charade he promised it would be. But when Franco walked in, his first words to me were an apology.

  I know I promised you no one would get hurt. Plans have changed.

  Why did he say such a thing? Why did he make me believe this was real?

  Abram’s eyes shoot to Frank, clear surprise on his face. “Babbo, don’t say that. He’s not going to do it, right, Fernando?”

  And then I realize he called Franco “dad” in Italian. My ears ring hollow as I stare at Aida’s brother. The oddest thought worms through my consciousness, that Aida lied by omission about who Abram is. How much more has she hidden from me?

  Dizziness runs beneath my skull like leaden water. I release my hold on Franco, dropping to my knees. The backs of my hands rest on my thighs as I stare at my trembling palms.

  I almost killed Aida’s father.

  A move that would have destroyed any chance of a future with her. The thought hisses in my belly like acid as I begin to question everything.

  Her motives for hiding her brother’s identity. Frank’s motives for wanting me to kill him.

  Something is wrong here. I’ve missed some important detail.

  My lungs feel shrunken as I attempt to pull in enough air to speak. I rub my hands over my face, squeezing my eyes shut. />
  Abram’s gaze moves to me and a snarl moves across his face. “What the fuck, man?”

  My mouth hinges open and closed as I try to push words out. “He was … You were …”

  Abram’s features tighten as his gaze bounces between Franco and me. “Hallway. Now.”

  Without another word, he turns and wraps his fist around the doorknob. There must be a fingerprint scanner, because a soft beep sounds, and then metal bars slide within the wood interior, unlocking the barred door.

  Rising slowly to standing, I glance at my mother. “I’ll be back, mamá.”

  In the hallway, Abram waits with his arms folded across his chest. His jaw works as he paces a few steps back and forth.

  “What was all that about?” He stops his pacing in front of me and stabs two fingers into my chest. “You wanted to kill him?” I open my mouth to speak, but Abram shifts his wrath to his father. “And you. Telling him to do it. What the hell were you thinking?”

  Franco wears a look of dark amusement, chuckling softly as he rubs his jaw with one hand. “I don’t answer to either of you. Get over it, and let’s get this done.”

  “No,” Abram says. “We all need to be on the same page, because clearly Fernando wasn’t in the know.” He turns to me. “What happened? I was under the impression you knew it was fake.”

  I nod. “That’s what I believed. And then when your dad first came in, he said, ‘I know I promised you no one would get hurt. Plans have changed.’”

  Abram squares his jaw, blinking twice before turning to his father. “Are you serious right now? All this time we planned this and you’re trying to go rogue on me? I know you got a death wish, Babbo, but not here, and not at the hands of a Navarre.”

  I cross my arms and lean against the wall, keeping my gaze fixed on Frank. “Why did you want me to kill you?”

  He responds by curling his lip in disdain.

  Momentarily, my attention shifts to over his shoulder, where further down the hall I see Aida peering from the control room. I fight the urge to walk over to her. Deep within some place I never knew existed, I sense her slipping even further away.

  Frank catches the direction of my stare and turns to glance behind him. His gaze lowers when he sees his daughter. “Abram, go get Capulet set up.”

  Abram pushes off the wall, and with a curious glance between us, heads toward the control room and then further down the hall.

  “I’m giving you one chance at this, Navarre,” Frank says. “Take my daughter and walk away now. Abram and I will finish this.”

  “I can’t leave my mom.”

  Pressing his lips together, he lowers his eyes to the floor. “She’ll be fine. I’m going to take her to where Clara and Bea are waiting. Her part is done.”

  “What happened to Clara?”

  “Bees.” Franco gives me a blank look. “Or an illusion of bees, complete with tiny projectiles shot from the walls making them think they were getting stung. The mind is a powerful thing. But she is fine. I swear it.” Without turning to look, he calls his daughter. “Aida, come here.”

  Aida walks over, her arms crossed. She stops, giving her father a hard stare, but Franco simply pins me with an expectant gaze.

  What does he want me to say? A romantic proposal, when I’m not free? A promise, when I don’t know if she’s willing to accept me along with my child?

  After a moment, Franco shifts his stare to his daughter. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

  Blinking away looming tears, she lowers her chin. “You crossed a line, Babbo.”

  He nods. “I hope you can forgive me.”

  My nose wrinkles in confusion as I look between them. I see the hurt in her lowered shoulders and downturned face, weighing on her like a sodden blanket. I wonder what he did.

  With a short sigh, Frank extends his arm, bending it at the elbow to check his watch. “It’s nearly four in the morning. Both of you, get your stuff and get going.”

  Shaking my head, I lean my back against the wall. “I won’t leave my family here. I said that already, Frank.”

  He cocks his head. “I’ve given you a chance to be with my daughter, free and clear, even after knowing your father sent that hit on my wife, and yet you still choose your family?”

  My jaw clenches. “Of course. My mother is innocent in this, and she helped you, as did my aunt and cousin.”

  “Yes. And they are all fine. Bea and Clara played their parts well, and are waiting in a room down the hall. Your mother will wait with them. Will it help to see them before you go?”

  A thread of suspicion lines my brow. “Why do you want me gone so bad?”

  Franco’s head sags backward as he looks up at the ceiling with a long-suffering exhale. He straightens and wraps one arm around my shoulders, urging me to walk with him a ways down the hallway.

  He speaks softly. “I’m putting your dad and Don in a room. Giving them an ultimatum and a way out. If this goes horribly wrong, I don’t want her to see me killed or arrested. Can you do that for me? Can you protect her? Take her back to your house in North Carolina. Abram will come get her sometime tomorrow when everything is clear.”

  Vaguely, I wonder why he wants to protect her from seeing him die, when he tried to get me to kill him before. But he also didn’t know she was in the control room. Nothing is adding up. It’s like I’m trying to fit the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle in place, but all the edges are smoothed away. Nothing is lining up.

  “Where’s Eli?”

  Wiping one hand over his mouth, Frank keeps his eyes pinned to mine. “Evelyn was having some issues. He needed to leave yesterday afternoon. You got his number?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “Yeah, just give him a call in the morning. He’s supposed to be back here by then, though. All right, we good? Do we have an agreement?”

  “Fine.”

  Chapter 17

  “Why didn’t you tell me Abram’s your brother?” Fernando says in a disgruntled tone.

  I shift in the narrow airplane seat, turning toward him with one of my brows arched in question. His handsome profile stares straight ahead as a muscle ticks in his jaw. We’ve remained mostly silent since we left Tempest Estates in the shimmering violet shades of daybreak. He quietly held my hand in the cab, then pulled me through the airport with our fingers threaded together.

  Even now, sitting on this short flight, he keeps our hands tightly bound as a reminder of his intentions. I’m not sure how to feel about all of it, but I can’t ignore how right it feels being with him.

  We’re together, away from both our deranged families, and briefly I’ve allowed myself to envision a future of normality alongside him. But now he’s asking questions.

  My dad insisted Abram’s identity be kept a secret. If anyone in the know searched his name, a criminal record and warrants would come up. While, yes, I did keep that information from Fernando, his question only serves to remind me of the way he behaved in relation to my brother, telling me I didn’t want to be a concierge.

  I lean forward, looking him in the eye. “Why was your first thought to ward me away from a possible career, just because an attractive man would be spending time with me?”

  He acted like a jealous prick. It wasn’t okay to try and sway me from trying something new.

  Clearing his throat, his eyes meet mine. “I know I crossed a line, but why couldn’t you just reassure me?”

  “It’s not my job to stroke your ego, Fernando.”

  He squares his jaw and gives a nearly imperceptible eye roll as he blinks.

  The woman sitting at the window seat ducks her chin and suppresses a smile, pretending to return her attention to the book in her hands.

  He and I need to talk. About a lot. But in earshot of strangers isn’t the best place. I can’t exactly ask why he tried to kill my father with his bare hands.

  A shiver runs down my spine as I remember seeing him behind my father, a mask of rage blanketing his features and his hands poised
to snap his neck. I’d never imagined Fernando capable of that. He’d felt like a safe place for me. Completely opposite from my vindictive father and steroid fueled brother.

  “Does your wife know we’re coming?”

  Window seat woman throws a scandalized glance at our entwined hands resting on the armrest.

  “I texted her. She’ll see it when she wakes up.”

  The cab slows to a stop in front of a steep, gravel driveway. At the top of the hill sits a quaint yellow house with white trimming, wraparound porch, and a red door. Towering pines shade the area

  Once Fernando pays, we climb out of the cab and the driver helps pull our luggage from the trunk. I tighten my sweater across my chest, a slight shiver running over me. It’s not cold, but a lingering chill I can’t shake seems to frost my skin.

  Fernando glances aside at me, rubbing his hand over my back. “You alright?”

  “Yeah, I think I just need some sleep.”

  He grabs my suitcase, and then we start climbing the incline to his house. Chickens freely roam the unfenced yard. It’s a cozy space with blooming daffodils and tulips lining the front, and a small herb garden near the walkup. A little girl comes careening around the corner of the house.

  “Papi!” she shouts, a massive smile blooming on her face as she drops the bundle of sticks in her arms.

  Her dark braids fly behind her as she launches herself at her father. With a low rumble of laughter, Fernando crouches, opening his arms.

  “Hero, mija,” he says softly, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on her head. “Te extraño.”

  “I miss you too,” she echoes.

  Jewel comes fast around the corner, following her running daughter, but skids to a halt as she sees us. “Hey!” she says with a wide grin.

  Her hair is still dark, and now reaches her mid-back. She wears a gray t-shirt along with a simple pair of jeans and duck boots.

  Stepping forward, she pulls me into a hug. “Aida, so good to see you again.”

  “You too,” I say with a tight smile.