by Rowena
“You’re an optimist, Francesca,” I say.
“Yeah, right,” she snorts.
“We got what we want; let’s get out of here.”
“That could have gone the other way,” she replies.
“It didn’t,” I say as we walk out the door.
She stops just outside.
“Clean up the explosives before you leave, boys,” she orders.
I halt briefly.
“The what?” I ask.
She smiles. “It could have gone the other way.”
“I didn’t order that,” I say.
“You didn’t not order it either,” she says.
“Taking liberties?”
“Precautions. It’s my job.”
“So it is,” I say, climbing into the car.
2
Isabella
“Look, this isn’t necessary. I mean, really,” I say.
“Shut up,” one of the men in the front seat barks, his voice harsh.
“Seriously, what am I going…?”
“I said, shut up!” he barks again.
“Or what?”
I hear the gun cock and then cold metal presses hard into my ribs.
“There will be an unfortunate accident,” he growls.
I shut up.
I’m not sure which of my father’s men are here.
Cold steel grips my wrists and the rough bag over my head smells of must, mold, and dust.
I didn’t think he’d go this far. I’m his daughter and this is how he treats me.
I hate him. I hate him so damn much.
Adjusting in the seat, I try to find a way to be comfortable, but we hit a pothole and I’m tossed up, banging my head on the ceiling then landing in a hump on my side.
“Fuck, Brett,” the one who growled at me exclaims.
“Fuck you,” Brett says.
“Fuck both of you,” I yell, trying to get back up to a sitting position. “How about a seatbelt if Jackass can’t drive?”
“Shut up!” they say in unison.
Great—twins. Just great. I’m so screwed.
The bag on my head seems to have pulled tighter. I can barely breathe.
I struggle and shift, finally pushing it out of my mouth with my tongue.
Gah, now my mouth is gross.
I wonder if they’re going to kill me.
I don’t think so—I don’t think Father will go that far but he’s pissed.
I don’t care—I couldn’t let him kill my friend. It’s not like I have that many, to begin with. It’s hard to make friends when your father’s a psychotic asshole.
The code of silence in all its applications—from the sacred omertà all the way down—was drilled into me from the time I could talk. Never go against the family. Family is everything. Never say what you know, especially to authorities.
See something? Keep your mouth shut.
Someone you love disappear? Don’t talk about it.
Overhear something? Absolutely keep your trap closed.
I couldn’t this time, though—Tommy is innocent. He stole a couple of hundred dollars, so what? It’s not like my father would miss it; he pisses away more than that every day. Also, it wasn’t like Tommy stole it for fun—his mom needed her medicine. He just took enough to cover the insurance deductible, but did that matter to my father?
Tommy is his mom’s only child. His father used to work for my father but ‘went missing’ in the line of duty, which means he was gunned down.
The war between my family and the Soriano family has gone on for years and Tommy’s dad is just another in the long list of victims. Tommy started working for my father running packages to help make ends meet at home.
Damn it, these cuffs are really chafing into my skin! They’re cold and hard.
I adjust again, trying to find some way to be comfortable.
I hate this. I hate him.
The two idiots up front are whispering.
I stop shifting around and try to listen but can’t make out what they’re saying.
“I have to pee,” I say.
“Too bad,” not-Brett says.
“I’m serious,” I say.
“So am I,” he replies and Brett snickers.
“You can’t treat me like this! Do you know who I am?”
“We know exactly who you are. We also have strict orders from your father. You went against your family.”
“I did not!”
“Huh. Well then, how did that little prick know to run? How was it that he knew right when we were coming to have a conversation with him?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Don’t be in idiot, Isabella,” Brett says and the van bounces again, throwing me against the side wall.
“I’m an idiot? Is there a pothole in fifty miles you haven’t hit?” I ask.
“That’s it—I’m finishing this,” Brett growls and the van swerves to one side.
My heart leaps into overtime.
Shit, I may have pushed too hard.
Adrenaline floods through, making my breath come faster but now I can’t breathe. The bag is too tight on my head. The rough fabric scratches my skin while trying to work its way into my mouth constantly.
“Brett, knock it off,” not-Brett says.
“Screw you, Jeff. I’m teaching this bitch a lesson,” he says.
The van lurches to a stop with a loud squeaking of brakes and bad suspension.
Hints of light leak through small holes in the bag over my head.
I’m breathing fast—too fast—but can’t get a full breath. Gagging from the smells, I struggle to make myself calm and slow my breathing, lowering my heart rate.
I don’t know which side of the van the door is on.
Will he come at me from the side? Will he come from the front?
I twist in the seat, trying to position myself to fight him off but I don’t know where to face.
Metal clicks on metal.
A ratcheting sound cuts through my panic.
Silence crashes down afterward.
My own breathing is loud in my ears but beyond it, I hear the two men breathing.
What is going on? Not knowing is worse, I think.
Are they going to kill me? Was that the order all along?
I didn’t think my father would.
Tears stream down my face unbidden, leaving cold trails across my hot skin. They fall into my open, gasping mouth, stinging my tongue with their salty bittersweetness.
Was it worth it? I don’t even know if Tommy will survive or not.
They’ll look for him. That I know. Will he be smart enough to stay away?
Oh god, will they use his mother to pull him out?
These men are cold, calculating, and have no qualms about hurting anyone.
I thought I’d get away with it—I’m his daughter, for god’s sake. The worst I expected was for him to rough me up, scream and yell, throw his fists around.
It wasn’t supposed to end this way.
“Don’t do it, Brett,” Jeff says, his voice quiet.
A quiet voice is the worst.
The men that work for my father are like him—hot-blooded. They get mad and they’ll beat you or break things.
They go quiet, someone is about to die.
Maybe it’s a reverence for the act of killing, or maybe it’s some weird trained thing. Either way, I’ve heard it too many times. I’ve heard my father’s voice do that right before he orders a death.
I quit moving, holding as still as I can while trying to slow my breathing so I can hear them better.
“You sure you want to do that, Jeff?” Brett asks.
“I ain’t doing nothing,” Jeff answers. “You’re in control here.”
“I’m not the one with a gun out,” Brett says.
“You’re right,” Jeff says. “But you’re the one who decides what happens next. You open that door, I kill you. You put this van in gear, we go on our way, and I put this gun aw
ay.”
I can hear Brett breathing. No one says anything.
I’m too scared to move, holding my own breath as I wait for what comes next.
“You’re an asshole,” Brett says.
He shifts in his seat and the van drops into gear then lurches into motion.
The gun clicks, and there’s a shuffle as the tension fades.
My heart slows, at last, leaving me alone with the fear.
I still can’t believe I’m here.
The uncertainty is what makes it worse.
My bladder is so full it aches, and my stomach is a roiling pit of acid.
“Hey, I still have to pee,” I say.
“Hold it,” Jeff says.
“We need gas soon,” Brett says.
“There, let me pee at the gas station. How far are we going anyway?”
“Thought you gassed up before we left,” Jeff says.
“This ain’t a fucking Prius,” Brett snaps.
Jeff doesn’t say anything back.
If I can get them to let me out, I can make a run for it; I don’t think they’ll shoot me. They wouldn’t take me this far out if that was their orders. I’d be dead already.
Of course, that doesn’t mean they won’t shoot me. There’d be consequences, but I don’t know if they care.
Hell, I don’t actually know if there would be any consequences—I didn’t think my father would do anything like this to me.
Bile rises in my throat as I remember him standing over me…
“She did what?” my father says quietly.
Paulie stares at me from where he’s leaning against the wall.
My father’s consigliere has cold, steel blue eyes that dig into you. There’s not an ounce of compassion in them or in him. My father is cold, but Paulie is liquid nitrogen—like he was born broken, missing some key ingredient that makes humans human.
“Tipped the boy off,” Paulie answers him.
“You sure?” Father asks Paulie, not me.
“Wouldn’t bring it to you otherwise,” Paulie answers.
Father leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his face.
I can’t stop myself from shifting my feet; my nerves are a mess.
The way they’re looking at me makes me want to run screaming from the room but I can’t. It would be the worst thing I could do.
“Isabella,” Father says.
“Yes, Daddy?”
“You went against your family. Have I raised you no better than this?”
It doesn’t matter what I say, I’m screwed. I’m so, so screwed.
He stares at me, waiting for an answer.
The clock ticks loudly, each movement of its gears sounding like the approach of impending doom.
I shrug, swallowing hard and trying to meet his eyes, but I can’t hold his gaze.
He sighs.
“Children,” he says breaking the silence between us at last. “I am an indulgent father, perhaps too much so. She gets her stubbornness from her mother, god rest her soul.”
“Daddy… ”
He cuts me off with a glare.
I know better than to speak when he is speaking.
My stomach clenches tight as nausea grips it, and cold sweat forms.
He stands and walks around his desk, moving to stand in front of me.
“It’s time my daughter learned a lesson.”
He’s not talking to me but to Paulie.
He looks at me, and it feels like the floor opens up underneath me.
I wish it would—anything to escape his gaze.
“Isabella, I love you—you are my only daughter. But never side against the family. Ever.”
He grabs my shoulders and pulls me close.
The smells of bourbon and stale cigar smoke overwhelm me as he kisses each of my cheeks then my forehead.
I shudder. I can’t help it.
“Yes, Daddy,” I say, tears flowing.
He turns his back on me and goes to stare out the double doors into the backyard.
My knees are weak and I can barely stand.
I want to vomit, pass out, scream, and run all at the same time.
Unable to decide on one, I stand frozen in place.
My mouth moves—I should say something—but nothing comes out.
Paulie comes to stand in front of me and then gently turns me around and pushes me out of my father’s office.
Outside of it, he closes the door behind us and then leads me out the front door…
I swallow down the bile, doing my best to remain calm.
Calm is the key. A clear head can come up with a plan.
Silence holds the van in its deadly grip.
The sound of the tires whistling against the asphalt are the only assault on its reign. No radio, no humming, no conversation—just the steady hum.
They have to stop for gas.
One of them will take me to the bathroom while the other gasses up.
Since it’s a public restroom, they can’t take me there with a bag on my head and in handcuffs, so they’ll have to remove them.
That’s my chance. No bag, uncuffed, I can run for it.
Maybe someone will call the cops.
I’ll scream—that’s what I’ll do. I’ll scream and someone will catch footage on their cell.
Even if the guys catch me, they can’t kill every witness.
It’s not a great plan but it’s all I’ve got.
My one great hope—scream and run.
This sucks.
The sound of the tires whistling slows and becomes a low drone.
A blinker flashes, clicking with each flash as the brakes squeak in protest of their use.
This is it. Breathe, breathe slow and steady. Keep the heart rate under control, push down the fear.
The van slows to an almost stop, then I can feel it turning. It crunches onto gravel or whatever sounds like it.
“Make it fast,” Jeff says. “We’re going to be late.”
“I have to pee!” I cry out. “Really bad.”
“Pee there,” Brett barks.
“No! That’s disgusting. God.”
Brett laughs. Sicko probably likes shit like that.
“Please! Look, I’ll be good. What can I do anyway? I have no idea where we are, no money. I just have to pee.”
“You could run, you could scream. You could make my life a hassle,” Jeff says.
“I promise I won’t, I just… I have to pee,” I beg.
“I’m not leaving you alone,” Jeff says.
“Fine! Watch, you sicko, but I really have to pee,” I say angrily.
The van comes to a stop and one door opens then another.
I hear them shut and I wait.
I pull my legs under me, preparing, planting my feet against the floor.
I lean toward the side door, ready.
It clicks, the latch letting go, then the rollers sound as the door slides to one side.
“All ri—”
I burst into motion, throwing myself toward the sound of his voice.
My shoulder crashes into whichever one of them is at the door, and his body gives way under the force.
It sounds like a rib may have snapped and the air is knocked out of him.
I land on the ground in a heap but scrabble back to my feet.
Over my own gasps, I hear the one I hit wheezing, trying to suck in air.
On my feet, I run forward and stumble over something hard, falling forward.
Moving my feet fast, I barely keep myself upright, bouncing off something metal—probably a gas pump.
Brett, I think, cries out, but I don’t slow down.
I can’t see—the bag over my head barely lets in light so I’m literally running blind.
I’m too winded, air is too precious to scream so I focus on running.
Then I hit something—no, someone.
My head hits into his chest and I stumble backward, unable to keep my balance and land on my
ass.
3
Donnie
The numbers click to a stop on the gas pump and the nozzle pops as they stop.
I pull it out and put it back on its hook then replace my gas cap.
While closing the lid, something hits me from behind unexpectedly.
I’m knocked into the car and, instinctively, I drop down, but whatever hit me slams into me again as I duck and I’m off my feet.
I roll over onto my back, scrambling backward, looking for the source of the attack.
Damn it, I shouldn’t have trusted Emilio—he’s double-crossed me already.
A girl is struggling to her feet between my spread legs.
There’s a sackcloth bag over her head and her hands are cuffed behind her.
This isn’t something you see every day.
I grab her by her shoulders and she fights, kicking at me.
“Hey,” I say. “Stop. What’s going on?”
“Help!” she gasps through the bag.
While climbing to my feet, I help her up.
She struggles, and as soon as her feet are under her, she tries to run again.
I grab her shoulders and shake her.
“What?” I ask her again.
“I’ve been kidnapped; they’re going to kill me,” she gasps.
That’s all I need to hear because behind her, two men are approaching. Thugs.
I know their type well enough—greasy hair, dead eyes, ill-fitted suits they wear to try and give themselves an air of respectability that they don’t have.
“Get behind me,” I order her and then push her where I want her. “Don’t move.”
“You don’t… ”
“Enough. Be quiet and wait,” I order.
She falls silent and doesn’t run.
Good.
The two men stop a few feet away. The three of us stare at each other.
One of them is blond with wavy hair, sharp features, and narrow shoulders. He seems to be the most relaxed of the two of them. The other has dark hair cut short, and broad features that make him look like a Neanderthal. The eyes make him look dumb as well.
I focus my attention on the blond.
“Gentlemen,” I say.
“Just give us the girl,” the dark-haired one says.
“Why would I do that?” I ask.
Dark Hair smiles and shakes his head then turns and spits on the ground.