by Rose Harper
Good question. And one Father never gave me the answer to. Every time I ask him about it, he always blows it off as if it means nothing when clearly, it means everything. Because why would you make your eldest son marry a certain woman otherwise? It’s not like this is the sixteenth century and betrothed marriages are still a fad.
“Influence. Connections—take your pick.” A timid knock on the door gets my attention. Smoothing my features, I say, “Come in.”
I watch with equal parts anticipation and fury as both Daniel and Jillian quickly enter the fray, shutting the door behind them with a soft click. Silently, I stare at them, waiting for one of them to break under the pressure first. The longer we’re surrounded by silence, the more my nerves shred. So much so, my hand itches to grab one of the Glocks harnessed under my arms.
“Explain.” I break the silence, cracking my neck.
Daniel stops short, Jillian bumping into his back. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It’s cute he thinks playing dumb is going to get him out of this. He’s been just as much a part of her training as Jillian has been. Only, he’s the one that was supposed to teach her about the logistics of being married to a man with as much power as myself. In my eyes, they’re both at fault, and they will be until this matter is resolved.
“If you don’t explain right now, you’ll regret it,” I growl.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says again, more forcefully.
Upon hearing a squeak, I train my gaze on Jillian and her eyes widen as she takes a step backward. Narrowing mine at her, all my brothers follow suit, pinning her in place with our dark glares. “No. You have to understand,” she says, floundering.
“Have to understand what?!” I yell, shooting to my feet. “Understand that you’ve been funneling money from my father since day motherfucking one, yet you haven’t put in the effort you continue to lie about? What the fuck is she going to do when she figures this all out, huh? Do you think she’ll be ready for this?” I pound the desk with my clenched fist, then rest against the top on my knuckles.
“I say we shoot her,” Gavino interrupts, going for his gun.
As tempting of an idea as that may be, we don’t need any more problems than we already have. And something tells me Daniel would make a lot of fuss if we nixed his wife right in front of him. The shit I deal with on any given day is horrible, but when it comes to the woman I’m supposed to fucking marry for the family, I will not stand for any excuses they try to shove down my throat. Someone will pay for their actions, I don’t give a damn who that is.
“Mateo. Please,” she begs. “I did this to protect her.”
“Protect her?! How the fuck are you protecting her? In two years’ time, she will be by my side as my wife, expected to be the frigid queen everyone reveres. You damned her to hell because the timid little creature I saw in there will never live up to my specifications.”
“You saw her?” Daniel asks, a vein in his neck pulsing with anger. “When?”
“Why do you think I canceled the party, Daniel? That bitch was hiding in the fucking corner like a trapped rat.” The only upside is that she followed my silent command and went toward the basement, which still piques my interest as to why she went there instead of her room. “And another thing, why the fuck is she in the basement? The only reason my father has been giving you money is because of her. Yet, you two live in the lap of motherfucking luxury while she holes herself away in the basement?”
By this point, I’m shaking in rage. No one should be treated as she’s being treated. Living in the basement? This whole goddamn house should be hers by right. It’s my family’s money keeping them above water. It’s my family’s connections that allow them to survive without being mowed down by a rival. It’s us keeping these sons of bitches alive, yet they want to toss the reason we keep them around in the basement? Bullshit.
“She deserves to be where I tell her to be,” Daniel spits, anger morphing his features as he stares me down. “My life—our life—has been put on hold because of that little bitch and she deserves everything we give her.” I can tell by the way his eyes flick toward the door that there’s more. More to what he’s saying that he doesn’t want me to know. If I find out he’s pussyfooting around with this, helping Jillian, I’ll end both of them myself.
As soon as the words leave him, I’m around his desk, slamming him against the wall. Wrapping my fingers around his throat, I squeeze until he’s red in the face, veins are pulsing at his temples, and he’s gasping for air. “She deserves none of this. Least of all pathetic motherfuckers like you and Jillian. If you can’t get the job done, then so fucking be it. You don’t deserve anything my family can give you.”
“Mateo,” Jillian cries.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch, before I put a bullet between your eyes,” Gavino threatens, placing the barrel of his pistol in the middle of her forehead.
This entire situation pisses me off. Every damn thing about it. If my father would just let me do shit on my own, then none of this would even be a problem right now. Instead, he’s allowing these rats to live, simply for the fact they’re supposed to be training my future wife on everything she needs to know. How am I supposed to look competent in front of our business associates if I have a wife who doesn’t know her ass from a hole in the ground? You can’t survive in my world without becoming hard and bloodthirsty. Yet these sick sons of bitches were going to send her in there, completely unprepared, and laugh when she failed.
It’s not her that would look like a failure, it’s me. I will be the one looked down on. I will be the one talked about in the shadows. Instead of the “Bloodthirsty King,” I’ll be known as the “Bitch Boy.” But fuck me, if I don’t have enough time to train her myself. With everything going on with the family and my current obligations, she would suffer more with me than she is here. At least here, if Jillian stepped up her game, she can be ready for when I need her.
“I’ll give you two months to get her where she’s supposed to be,” I whisper-hiss. “Two goddamn months. If she isn’t, then one of you will suffer. And so help me, God, I better be updated on her progress.”
If this shit fucking backfires on me, I’ll mow down their entire bloodline. No one will be able to pass on the Ricci name by the time I’m through with them.
3
CARINA
R unning the tips of my fingers along the clay mud wall, I draw pictures that remind me of a better time. A time away from this place. A time, before all this started, that I lived for myself and myself alone.
With hair matted in a mess of dirt, grime, and tangles surrounding my face, I shiver as more freezing groundwater saturates my flimsy clothing. My soul yearns to be anywhere other than here; anywhere with warmth and the crispness of the fresh air I so long for. But no matter how hard I will those things to become a reality, they never do. I’m doomed to this life of darkness until my parents think I deserve the light.
“I mean nothing; I am nothing,” I whisper, fighting a battle within myself. “I mean nothing; I am nothing.”
Repeating my father’s words come second nature—it has for as long as I can remember. Every time I’m in here or doing what he bids of me, I have to recite them over and over until he says I can stop. It’s been burned into my brain since before I could walk, and it will continue to fester for as long as he deems fit.
The only company I have are rodents dancing around my feet, and the bugs crawling over my skin—even when they’re not there, I can still feel their phantom steps. At least this time, he put me here clothed, instead of naked, which is what he usually does. He said it was a benefit of my situation. But, what situation is that? How is this a benefit? How can locking away your only child benefit them?
“I mean nothing; I am nothing,” I repeat, rocking back and forth, now slapping at creepy crawlies that aren’t really there. I can feel my mind slipping with every brush of a rat’s body and every bite of an insect�
��s mouth. If they leave me here too long, I fear of what I might do—of what I might become.
I’ve been in this place for nineteen days. Nineteen painfully desolate days. The only reason I know the exact number is because I slid around until I found pebbles scattered around the small damp space.
For the first few days, I remained silent, never once allowing the words to tumble from my lips, which is what I knew he wanted. I did it as a nonverbal “fuck you” toward dear old Pops, but then, just like every time before, I caved. The words forced themselves from my chapped lips as if they were a prayer for any type of salvation.
However, with no stimulation to keep me company, I felt myself fall further and further down the rabbit hole. Darkness became my only friend, and reasoning was a thing of the past.
By day nine, my father came to the door and let loose a flurry of derogatory words toward me, hoping to break me. To his dismay, I held iron clad.
By day fifteen, my mind was frayed so badly, I didn’t know up from down. Things began aggressively crashing against the barrier of my mind. So tough, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop them from penetrating it, rendering me useless.
From that moment on, I didn’t care what happened to me. I didn’t care if my parents never came back. I was broken, useless. They’d toss me out with yesterday’s garbage if they ever found out I allowed myself to get to this level.
Everything was fucked up beyond repair.
Of course, I was angry they put me in here. Who wouldn’t be? But I no longer had the urge to make them pay for it. I no longer had the urge to move from this very spot. Hope, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, was the only thing keeping me levelheaded in all this. And I feel even that slowly slipping through my pruned fingers.
The only reason I know the turn of each day is because he would open a trap in the door to my left and slip in their scraps from lunch, letting them fall haphazardly onto the muddy floor. Every time that happened, I would take a pebble from the pile and place it in the pocket of my soaked running shorts. Then, and only then, would I crawl over to the pile of food, deciding which scraps I could eat. I had to pick and choose which morsel to eat, because many times before, my father would poison it.
He did that once before; poisoning a piece of bread, and I spent several days lying in agony. The pain that coursed through my body is still fresh in my mind, making me hesitant to take anything he deemed to give me.
Even though I don’t want to take anything from him, I know I need the nourishment. Being left unable to defend myself is not something I want to happen while being here—even if I take the chance of writhing in pain until he comes to collect me.
He says all this is for my own good. That I should be proud he treats me as he does, instead of an animal that deserves a collar that forces them to jump at command.
“I mean nothing; I am nothing. I mean nothing; I am nothing. I mean nothing; I am nothing. I mean nothing; I am nothing.”
I mumble it over and over, never once stopping. Saying it enough until I believe it myself. It doesn’t take much, because I’m already fucked beyond all compare. My mind, it’s useless, empty. Everything I’m meant to be—forgotten.
I mean nothing; I am nothing.
The sound of metal scraping against metal causes my heavy eyes to lift, hoping he’s seen the error of his ways. It’s the last shred of myself I’m holding onto. The last scrap of my sanity I don’t want to lose—but I feel it leaving my body as he stares at me with so much vehemence I can barely breathe.
“Why aren’t you reciting?!” my father booms, livid.
His reaction causes more of that shit to penetrate my wall. The hope I was holding onto vanishes like the snap of rope. There is no hope. There is nothing. I’m losing it all, and it’s because of him.
I was warned this would happen, but I shook it off. Now, his words come back to haunt me, mocking me over a time I should have listened to him.
“I mean nothing; I am nothing,” I cry out, tunneling my hands in my hair roughly. “I mean nothing; I am nothing! I mean nothing; I am nothing! I mean nothing; I am nothing! I mean nothing; I am nothing!”
Gritting my teeth so hard pieces chip off, falling against my tongue, only seems to cause more hysteria to bloom. He taught me to be just as I am, yet he’s breaking me to the point I don’t even know who I am anymore. How can he train me, then idly sit back, and watch as all his hard work goes down the drain?
“Quit hurting yourself! Stop causing yourself pain!” he bellows. “That’s not what you do!”
Feeling the last shred of humanity leave me, my hands start clawing at my tangled hair, ripping strands painfully from my scalp. “I mean nothing; I am nothing.” I rip more, sighing as blood from my scalp oozes down my face. Pain. It’s something I know and love. Something he can never take away from me.
“I mean nothing; I am nothing!” I scream as I start knocking my head against the mud wall. More pain assaults me, but it’s nothing but pleasure I feel
“Jillian!” I vaguely hear my father yell as I feel strong arms wrap around me. They try to hold me hostage as I continue to thrash around, hoping for the blessed pain that comes with it. I need it; yearn for it. Pain is all I know. For myself, I need it like I need air.
“Jillian, get your ass in here!”
The door scrapes against the hinges once more, and I desperately wanted to become one with it. It sounds painful, beautiful. It’s music to my ears.
“What the fuck happened to her?!” my mother screams, cupping my face.
Staring blankly back at her, I continue mumbling, “I mean nothing; I am nothing.”
It took nineteen days for them to break me. It will take forever to repair me.
MATEO
Waiting is not in my repertoire. It’s taking everything in me to stop from going to collect her early. I’ve never been a patient man, and everyone who knows me knows this. They know with every second that passes and I don’t get the results I’m after, I get more strung out— a step closer to the edge of crazy, ready to fall face first into the fray.
“It’s nearly been three weeks, Father,” I say, barely controlling my anger.
Sighing, he runs his fingers through his salt and pepper hair. “Give them time, Mateo. We all know training takes time.”
Yes, I know it takes time. But, shitfire, I shouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place. It’s tough running this family, knowing what I have to do. But it’s another thing being tied to someone that could potentially put this family in jeopardy. I refuse to allow anything to happen. We didn’t become the most lethal family in all of Brooklyn by letting anyone get the drop on us. We stood up, took charge, and everyone has been following our footsteps ever since.
“They were supposed to be training her this whole time! Yet she never, never, got an ounce before I saw her.”
“What do you expect me to do?” he asks. “It’s not like I can cut them off. You still have time before you’re due to marry this woman. That’s plenty of time for them to make up for their mistake.”
A mistake that should’ve never happened in the first place, but I know better than to voice my opinion to him again. They know what kind of family we are; they know the things we do to those who screw us over. My father should be more furious about this, instead of taking the backseat on it all. This is the fucking deal he set up. A fucking deal that’s steadily going down the drain, and he needs to rectify the problem. Immediately.
Breaking eye contact, I glance past him, seeing the array of pictures lining the walls of his office. Various pictures of him with my mother, then others with him and his five boys: me, Lucio, Gavino, Vinny, and Giovanni. My eyes run over the pictures, seeing our smiles on full display as we stand proudly at our father’s side. I can remember always trying to get beside him, but somehow being passed over for Lucio. It made me wonder if Lucio was his favorite, being that he went and did everything with him. But in recent years, I’ve summed it up as a fluke.<
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Back then he was the fiercest man I knew. He took no shit and slit the throats of those who tried. Our mother and he were pushed together during a feud with a rivaling family—much, but not quite, the same way he’s pushing Carina on me. It’s the sole reason I’m not putting up more of a fight than I am. Turns out, my mother and father were perfect for each other. Both bloodthirsty, cutthroat—she was the perfect queen to her king. She ran this ship like she did anything else: ride or fucking die.
Sometimes, I find myself missing her to the point of sickness. I miss the softness where my father is hard. The times she spent in the kitchen or at my father’s side. She was tough as nails, until someone took it all away from us. When that happened, I grew up fast. Faster than I should have, or any kid my age should be required to. Our Nonna could only do so much before she broke her back trying to raise us. So, instead of easing my way into this life, I was thrown in with both feet, sink or fucking swim.
I took over everything. Cooking, taking care of my brothers, fielding calls, and anything else my father needed me to. Everyone in this family relied on me during most of my formative years, and it was only right when I got to the age to take over the family business that it fit me just right. It’s the only reason I’m questioning my father now. He’s never known to be lenient on anyone, yet he’s showing it in spades toward the Riccis.
Bringing my eyes back to him, I see weariness rolling from him in waves. “Why are you getting soft on this? You know this woman can make or break how people view this family. We need them to know we can’t be messed with, and that means I need a cold-hearted bitch at my side.”
“I am most certainly not getting soft. You will do well to watch that tone with me. They have two years to get her ready, and I am sure she will be the frigid, cutthroat bitch we need to run this family alongside you,” he says, shooting a secretive smile my way.