A Promise of Ruin

by Cuyler Overholt

  She sank back onto her heels, her eyes losing their momentary luster. I looked around the room at the other girls. If any of them had understood my conversation with Teresa, they gave no sign of it. The one who’d helped Francesca had moved soundlessly back to her cot and sat propped against the wall again, clutching her knees to her chest. They all appeared to be in shock, their bodies tense, their eyes staring blankly or darting toward the door whenever a noise floated up from downstairs. I wondered how long they had been here.

  “I’m sorry,” Teresa said.

  “For what?” I asked, turning back to her.

  “That you are here, because of me.”

  On the adjacent cot, Francesca started to cry, hugging herself and rocking back and forth. Teresa scuttled over and put an arm around her shoulders, shushing her softly. As she moved off my cot, I noticed the overlapping reddish-brown stains on the center of the ticking. Virgin blood, I realized with a twist of my stomach.

  Francesca was speaking in a dialect I couldn’t understand. “What’s she saying?” I asked Teresa.

  “She says she doesn’t understand why she is here,” Teresa answered, stroking a lock of hair back behind the girl’s ear.

  Of course she didn’t, I thought bitterly. “That man downstairs—Gallo—tricked her into coming here with a promise of marriage,” I told Teresa, “just as Antonio tricked you.”

  She stiffened, dropping her arm from Francesca’s shoulders. “Antonio? Antonio didn’t trick me! Why would you think such a thing?”

  I frowned at her. “Didn’t he bring you here from the boat?”

  “No!”

  “Then…who did?”

  She seemed to suddenly deflate, her face turning even grayer in the dim light. “Un-Occhio.”

  Un-Occhio—the same man Caterina had spoken of. A murmur of unease rippled through the room at the sound of his name. “How did he get you to go with him?”

  “I thought he was a friend of Antonio’s,” she said, her voice bitter with self-reproach. “I had been waiting at the pier a long time. When he called my name from the carriage, I thought Antonio must have sent him for me.”

  “But you didn’t recognize him?”

  She shook her head.

  Apparently, she’d managed to keep believing in her fiancé’s sincerity throughout her ordeal. I hated to have to disillusion her. “How do you suppose the man at the pier knew your name?”

  “I don’t know. I have asked myself that question a thousand times.”

  “You never wondered if Antonio might have told him? If he might, perhaps, be working with Un-Occhio?”

  “No!” she cried, her eyes ablaze. “You don’t know Antonio. He could never do such a thing!”

  “I know his father was a capo with the Camorra in Naples,” I told her bluntly. “And that he ran a prostitution business there.”

  She clamped her lips together, taking this in but apparently unwilling to follow it to its natural conclusion.

  “And I know that the man downstairs with the deformed ear is a friend of his.”

  “What man?” she demanded.

  “The one called Donato, who drove the carriage to the pier to pick up Francesca.”

  “There is no man here with an ear like that!”

  “Ask her,” I said, indicating Francesca.

  She swiveled toward Francesca, questioning her rapidly in Italian. The girl nodded dully in response.

  Teresa turned back to me, thrusting out her chin. “Well, then, I am sure he is no friend of Antonio’s.”

  “I’ve seen them together, Teresa.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You’ve seen Antonio?”

  “I went to his home to ask him if he knew where you were.”

  She pressed her hands to her chest. “Then you must have seen that he is a good man! Whatever this Donato has done, it can have nothing to do with Antonio.” She leaned toward me, fairly vibrating with intensity. “There are many things I do not know, but of this, I am certain: Antonio’s love for me was real.”

  I studied her face, struck by her conviction. Despite the evidence against him, I’d never been wholly satisfied with the notion of Antonio as our white slaver, based on my own observations. Nor did Teresa strike me as someone who would be easily taken in. If she was still convinced of her fiancé’s integrity, after everything she’d been through, perhaps I shouldn’t be so quick to condemn him. “I’m sorry if I jumped to the wrong conclusion,” I told her. “Please forgive me.”

  She peered into my eyes a moment longer, as if to be sure I really was sorry, before sitting back with a curt nod.

  Although I regretted that I’d upset her with my questions, I was glad to see that she could still be angry. Anger was good; anger meant that they hadn’t broken her yet. Perhaps together, we could still find some way out of this hellhole. “The man who took you from the pier… Why is he called Un-Occhio? Does he wear an eye patch?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why then?”

  She bit her lip, dropping her gaze to the cot. “Because he has only one”—she gestured toward her lap—“testicolo.”

  “Testicle?” I blinked at her in surprise as an unwelcome image of her discovering this fact flashed grotesquely across my mind. “I…see. Well, do you have any idea what his real name is? Or any clue as to his identity?”

  “I can tell you only that he is the son of the devil, for he knows things that only God or the devil could know.”

  “What sort of things?” I probed.

  She looked back up at me. “He calls me Reza,” she said, her voice full of wonder. “The special name that only Antonio uses for me. How could he know that, unless he is the devil himself?”

  The most obvious explanation, of course, was that Antonio had told him, but I was determined to remain open to other possibilities.

  “And he knows the special ways to hurt us,” she went on, “to make us do what he wants. Some, he burns. Others, he cuts. Me, he hurts with words.”

  “With words?”

  Her dark eyes clouded with despair. “He tells me that Antonio will suffer because of me. That I will be his instrument of revenge.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would he want to hurt Antonio?”

  “I don’t know! I only know that he hates him, as the devil hates an angel. I can see it in his eyes when he speaks of him.”

  I digested this for a moment. If the men were enemies, they most certainly couldn’t be working together, suggesting that Teresa’s faith in her fiancé had been well placed. “And he hoped to make Antonio suffer by stealing you away?”

  “Even…even worse than that,” she said, lowering her gaze again.

  “What do you mean?”

  In a strained voice, she answered, “He wanted to make Antonio watch.”

  I sat back. “You mean, watch him violate you?”

  She nodded, her cheeks aflame. “When he took me to the chicken house, from the boat, he told me all the terrible things he was going to do to me when Antonio arrived. There was a chair in the room, and pieces of rope. He said they were for Antonio. He said—” Her voice broke. “He said that Antonio would have the best seat in the house.” She drew a deep breath, and a little of the fire returned to her eyes. “But then his men returned and told him Antonio had escaped. For this one thing, at least, I thank God.”

  I remembered Antonio’s story of being accosted by thieves outside the bank the morning Teresa’s boat arrived. It must have been Un-Occhio’s men, I realized now, trying to spirit him away. “Did Un-Occhio tell you how Antonio escaped?”

  “No. But…” She blanched. “He was very angry.”

  And took it out on her, I guessed. I reached over and laid my hand on her shoulder.

  The bolt suddenly rattled on the other side of the door. I felt Teresa stiffen, and saw the o
ther girls shrink back on their cots as if trying to disappear into the walls.

  The door swung open to reveal Claudia on the threshold. “Let’s go,” she barked. “It’s time to eat.”

  The girls seemed to hesitate, looking at each other in confusion before they pushed themselves to their feet and started for the door.

  “Usually, the men come before supper,” Teresa whispered to me as we joined the back of the line. “That way, if the girls resist, they can refuse to let them eat. Your coming must have upset things.”

  “The girls,” I repeated as I stumbled along beside her. “But not you?”

  “No. Not me,” she said, her voice clipped. “I am for Un-Occhio only.”

  Claudia ushered us down the ramp to the main floor and then down another ramp into the basement. This was one large, dirt-floored room with hay bales around the perimeter and a long, battered table in the middle. Donato was eating with Nucci at a smaller table near the door.

  “That’s him,” I whispered as we walked past, nudging Teresa. “The man I saw with Antonio. Have you seen him before?”

  Following my gaze, she shook her head.

  A ladle and bucket of soup were waiting on the main table, along with a pile of spoons and a stack of chipped bowls. The girls eagerly took their seats. They were all very thin, I noticed now, probably half-starved to keep them compliant. Claudia walked around the table with a shallow basket, distributing rolls so hard they bounced on the table, while the girls ladled the soup into bowls. They dunked the rolls into the broth and gnawed at the moistened ends, pulling off chunks with their teeth.

  “Eat up, ladies,” Claudia drawled, before going to join the men at the other table.

  I made no move for the ladle, hollow with fear and nauseated by the thought of food. My mind kept churning over the question of One-Eye’s identity and his relationship with Antonio. If I could just solve that puzzle, my predicament would feel less hopeless. For if I could figure it out, there was a chance that Simon and Detective Cassidi could as well.

  “Eat,” Teresa said, sloshing a ladleful of soup into my bowl.

  “I couldn’t,” I said, shaking my head.

  “You must keep up your strength!”

  I supposed she was right. Whatever happened from here on in, I was going to need every ounce of physical and mental strength I could muster. I filled my spoon with the greenish gruel and lifted it into my mouth. It was even worse than it looked, cold and watery and…

  I swung my gaze toward the soup bucket as the broth washed over my taste buds, staring at it for several paralyzed seconds. I swallowed and swiveled back to Teresa. “What does Un-Occhio look like?”

  She paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Older, about the age of that one there,” she said, tipping her head toward Donato. “With shorter hair and small eyes, close together.”

  “Heavy or thin?”

  “Not heavy everywhere, but thick around the middle.”

  “Does he have a beard or mustache?”

  “No.”

  “What about jewelry?”

  She frowned, searching my face. “He wears a silver ring on his little finger.”

  I put down my spoon. “Which hand?”

  She thought a moment. “The right.”

  My breath left me in a ragged exhale. He’d been there under our noses, all the time. I was about to tell Teresa what I’d just realized, when Gallo came running down the ramp and burst into the room.

  “We go tonight, at midnight,” he announced to the others.

  “But the vans aren’t finished,” Nucci protested.

  “He said we have to finish them now.” He turned to Claudia. “He wants you to get the new girls ready.”

  “What about her?” Claudia asked, pointing to me.

  His eyes skimmed over me. “Especially her.”

  Claudia walked toward us, clapping her hands. “All right, everybody up, fai presto. Nucci and Gallo, you take the girls back up while Donato gets started on the vans.” She shook a finger at the younger men. “But no dawdling! We don’t have much time.”

  “What’s happening?” I asked Teresa as we were herded back up the ramp.

  “They must be moving us out.”

  My feet faltered beneath me as reality sank in. I’d been fooling myself, thinking they might let me go to save their own necks. The truth hit me now like a powerful paralytic. Of course they weren’t going to let me go. Whatever threat my discovery posed to them could be easily eliminated by transporting me out of the city.

  “Get moving,” Nucci growled, shoving me from behind.

  This time, the men followed us into the tack room and closed the door behind them. Nucci removed a toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at me and Francesca. “You two. Take off your clothes.”

  The rest of the girls slunk back onto their cots, leaving the two of us alone in the middle of the room. Nucci and Gallo stood with their legs spread and their thumbs hooked in their pockets, watching us hungrily.

  I realized that Francesca was looking at me for guidance, and struggled to think rationally through the haze of my fear. Most likely, they didn’t intend to rape us on the spot, since they were expected downstairs to help with the vans. Taking away a captive’s street clothes was, I had learned, simply the first step in the breaking-in process. If we resisted, we’d only give them the pleasure of overpowering us. It might be better to go along with them now and save our energy for a battle we could win.

  Though it sickened me to do so, I nodded to Francesca, signaling her to obey their command. Methodically, I stripped off my skirt, shirtwaist, stockings, corset, and drawers, folding each item and laying it on the floor at my feet, until I was wearing nothing but my chemise. It took all my willpower not to cringe or try to cover myself as their eyes raked my thinly veiled body. Francesca followed my example, although her fingers were trembling so badly it took her longer to comply.

  Nucci swaggered toward me, coming to a stop just inches away. “What you got under there?” he asked with a grin, his rancid breath fanning my face as he flicked the top of my chemise with his finger. “You got something nice for Nucci?”

  I fought to keep my expression blank.

  His grin turned into a sneer. He grabbed the placket of my chemise and pulled it toward him, thrusting his other hand inside.

  I gasped as his hand roughly squeezed my breast. Without stopping to think, I raised the call box key I’d removed from my skirt pocket as I was undressing and jabbed it into his face. He turned away reflexively, so that the point of the key dug into the corner of his eye. He jerked back with a howl, ripping the front of my chemise as he did so.

  I started for the door. Within two seconds, he had grabbed me from behind and thrown me onto my back on a cot. He dropped on top of me, loosing a stream of invective as he trapped my wrist against the cot with his forearm and dug the key from my fist. Pinning my legs with his knees, he started unbuttoning his trousers with his free hand.

  I raised my left arm and scratched at his face, forcing him to pull back his head, but he was still sitting on top of me, making quick work of the buttons. His hand moved up the outside of my thigh, pushing up my chemise, then slid around the top of my leg and groped for my crotch. I groaned in helpless protest, trying to twist away from his prying fingers—but it was like trying to get out from under a slab of cement. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperate to distance myself from my body and the inevitability of what was happening.

  And then, suddenly, the door swung open and Claudia was behind him, pulling him off of me. “Are you crazy?” she shrieked.

  He stumbled backward across the floor.

  “Un-Occhio will kill you!” Claudia cried, swatting at him with her open hand.

  He straightened, pulling up his trousers. His right eye was half-shut and watering profusely.

 
“Go on, get out!” Claudia said, stepping between us. “Go help with the vans!”

  He backed toward the door, holding his eye with one hand and pointing at me with the other. “I’ll be back for you,” he promised, spittle flying from his lips, before he staggered out of the room.

  Claudia turned to me with a frown. “Give me your hairpins,” she ordered, holding out her hand.

  I stared at her, too dazed to make immediate sense of her request. She bent over me with an oath and started plucking the pins out one by one, yanking out strands of hair with each pin. Scooping up my clothes from the floor, she followed the others out, then closed the door behind her and slammed the bolt home.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I sat on the cot, hugging myself, waiting for the shaking to subside.

  “Are you all right?” Teresa asked.

  I turned to her. “Why did she stop him?”

  “Un-Occhio must be the first to have each girl. It’s the rule.”

  Another shudder wracked my spine. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. I squeezed my temples, trying to pull myself together. “I think I know who he is.”

  “Un-Occhio?”

  I drew a deep breath, knowing that what I was going to say would upset her. “I think it’s Mr. Velloca. Rosa’s father.”

  She just blinked at me.

  “You never met him in Italy, did you?”

  “Well, no, but…Rosa’s father?” She shook her head.

  “So you wouldn’t have recognized him. He probably knew about your coming here, though. Rosa was very excited about it. She would almost certainly have talked about it with her family.”

  “It cannot be! Rosa is a sweet, wonderful girl. She can have nothing to do with a monster like Un-Occhio.”

  “There are men in this world who are capable of both great charm, and great cruelty and deceit,” I said bitterly. “I suspect that Velloca is one of them. For self-protection, he’s probably hidden his activities well from his family. I’m sure Rosa has no idea what he’s involved in.”