The Woman in the Trunk

by Jessica Gadziala

  And my father had always been good with a beating.

  It was harder now that I was taller than him, bigger and stronger than him. But he managed to make up for those shortcomings with a boundless amount of rage.

  It wasn't long before I was tasting blood, and felt the tell-tale crack of a broken rib, the sharp pain that accompanied it.

  A part of me couldn't help but wonder what Giana was thinking as I stood there with my arms at my side, taking a beating.

  Did she think I was weak?

  Did she think I was afraid of my father?

  Or did she understand what was happening?

  As the gun collided with my jaw, I finally swallowed my pride enough to glance over, finding her shifted up onto her knees, the chain straining against the wall because she had tried to move closer, wanted to do something.

  Her wide eyes were on mine.

  Fearful.

  Concerned.

  For me?

  For her?

  Maybe I would never know.

  Because my father's rage only seemed to grow when I didn't cry out, didn't curse, didn't beg for mercy.

  "Get on your fucking knees," he demanded, making me suck in a deep breath as I moved to do so.

  I wasn't a man who truly understood fear.

  Fear did nothing.

  Acceptance of inevitable fate was a prouder way to go, in my humble opinion.

  I could feel the cool of the cement through the knees of my slacks as I carefully went down closer to Giana, as I reached discreetly into my pocket, pulling what I was looking for out, tucking it into my fist, waiting for the opportunity to give it to her, to give her a fighting chance.

  If I didn't make it out of this, I wanted her to be able to.

  Emilio would find a way to help her. He would know I would want that.

  I lifted my chin, staring up at my father, who somehow managed to look like an even smaller man at that angle.

  "You are not the mother fucking boss of the Costa family, boy," he roared, lifting the gun.

  I'd seen him shoot many men in my life.

  From a car.

  From a street corner.

  From a window.

  Across a room.

  He didn't often do up-close-and-personal killing.

  I was starting to see why.

  His fucking hand was shaking.

  Hard enough that the gun was trembling, and his aim was for shit.

  Maybe I could make that work to my benefit. Turn just right at the exact right second. Get a graze instead of a direct hit.

  I doubted he would shoot me when I was down. It wasn't a power move. His men were watching.

  "You want to be a Capo dei Capi, you need to kill the current one," he added.

  In that moment, it sounded a lot like an invitation to my ego.

  But it wasn't that easy. It never was. If I killed my father to take his place, the other families would decide to kill me for my disloyalty. And then they would all go to war to pick the next Capo dei Capi.

  If I went that route, there was no way I was going to make it out of this.

  At least I stood a chance that my father wouldn't feel the need to be lethal.

  "Family over everything," I countered, shaking my head. "Always," I added.

  They were good final words, if this was the end.

  The men would repeat them.

  My father's reign would be questioned.

  Especially if he killed me after them.

  There was a rumbling sound coming from my father before his finger slid to the trigger.

  My hand moved outward slightly, looking like I was bracing myself.

  When his gaze didn't follow the movement, I slid the saved item out of my hand, passed it to a confused Giana, feeling her slide it into her own fist, hiding it.

  There.

  It was done.

  Come what may.

  Chapter Twelve

  Giana

  The handcuff key was still cool in my palm when the shot rang out. The sound was deafening in the small, enclosed space, making my ears ring so loud that I didn't even realize I was screaming until I heard Arturo snap, "Someone shut that bitch up," a second before a palm slapped across my cheek, the hot pain seeming to snap me out of my shock, making my gaze fly to where Lorenzo was sprawled on the ground, bleeding from a gunshot wound right above his left ear.

  Oh, God.

  No.

  No no no no.

  This couldn't be happening.

  He couldn't be bleeding to death right in front of me.

  It wasn't until right that moment that I realized he had started to mean something to me, despite my efforts to keep him at a distance.

  He'd been good to me, considering.

  He'd sided with me against the family.

  The biggest taboo of all.

  And then he'd... he'd murdered the man who had raped me.

  Who did that?

  He told his father it was about the family's honor, but I knew that wasn't all.

  He'd done it for me.

  He'd killed for me.

  He'd gotten the revenge I wanted, but knew I couldn't stomach to get for myself.

  And then his final act before staring down the barrel of his father's gun was to hand me a handcuff key, to grant me my freedom when the opportunity presented itself.

  "Get him the fuck out of here," Arturo growled, waving down at Lorenzo's body.

  Arturo's guards were the first to the body, grabbing him, lifting him, hauling him out of the room.

  Chris stayed with me.

  While Emilio and Chris and some of the other guards I had met while stuck at Lorenzo's penthouse technically belonged to Arturo, it was clear to me that their loyalty was to Lorenzo.

  Once Lorenzo and the guards were gone, Arturo stormed out too, followed by his remaining guards, leaving just me and Christopher.

  We both stayed in numb silence for a long couple of moments, hearing all the movements upstairs. I was pretty sure I heard Arturo going up the stairs to the top level, could hear his men getting back to work on the dining room floors.

  Only then did Chris turn to me.

  "Was he still breathing?" I whispered, my heart thudding so hard in my chest that my ribcage hurt.

  "I don't know," he admitted, sounding remorseful about it.

  "Is Arturo going to kill me?"

  "I don't know," Chris said again, shoulders falling.

  "Are his men going to rape me?"

  "No," he told me, straightening, chin lifting, a stubborn move I knew well.

  "You can't say that for sure."

  "I'll be standing right outside this door."

  "For what? Forever?" I asked, shaking my head.

  "If necessary. And there's Emilio too," he added, shrugging. "Lorenzo would want us to do this."

  My heart shrank smaller in my chest, felt like it was drying out, becoming brittle.

  "What happens now?"

  "My best guess? Arturo hits the bottle. Which means he will pass out for the rest of tonight."

  "Will his men leave?"

  "Some of them. When they're done with the floor. The ones who stay will move outside so they can piss off the neighbors by smoking and bullshitting all night. If you hold off until then, I can get you upstairs. Use the bathroom. Get you something to eat and drink."

  My bladder was screaming.

  I was going to get a raging UTI at this rate.

  But what choice did I have?

  "Okay," I agreed, nodding. "Thank you, Chris."

  "You didn't belong in all this shit anyway."

  "And if it weren't for me, none of this would have happened."

  He didn't deny that, because we both knew it was the truth, as hard as it was for me to swallow.

  If Lorenzo was dead, it was my fault.

  I wasn't sure how my conscience was going to accept that, come to grips with that.

  It wasn't the time for it, anyway.

  Now was the ti
me for survival.

  And, eventually, freedom.

  That was what Lorenzo wanted for me.

  I would honor that.

  "I have to go outside the door. In case anyone comes down," Chris said, sounding regretful.

  A part of me didn't like the idea of being alone. The other part wanted solitude, needed to process all that had just happened, what it all meant, what the next move was from here.

  "Okay," I agreed, nodding. "Thank you."

  He gave me a tight nod and moved outside the door, closing it behind him.

  Alone, the cool of the room settled deeper into my bones. But what sent goosebumps over my skin wasn't the cold, natural dampness of the basement.

  No.

  It was the puddle of darkening blood on the floor near my foot.

  I scuttled back from it, leaning back against the wall again, feeling the relief on my ankle shackle once I gave it slack.

  Tears flooded my eyes unexpectedly, blurring my vision, cracking open something deep inside.

  I didn't bother fighting them, too tired to try. Instead, I leaned my head back against the wall, letting them flow freely, dropping down onto the bodice of my dress, darkening the material, soaking it as the time went on.

  Eventually, they dried up. But not before they made my cheeks raw, my eyelids puffy.

  And between the swollen eyelids and the sheer exhaustion that had been weighing on me finally won out, making my eyes flutter closed.

  I dreamed of Lorenzo.

  The same, yet different.

  We were in his penthouse. But there were no guards, no locks on doors meant to keep me in.

  Because I was there by choice, walking across his apartment with bare feet, carrying two mugs of coffee, handing one to a waiting Lorenzo leaning back on the couch, still in his loafers, slacks, and button-up, but his jacket was draped over the back of the sofa at his side.

  He gave me a head tilt, eyes soft, and motioned me to him with the fingers of his free hand.

  I went to him willingly, happily, settling in close at his side, feeling the weight of his arm settle around my shoulders, pulling me closer still.

  It was the safest I ever felt in my life.

  The warmest too.

  The most content.

  I woke up shivering, teeth chattering with the cold, my stomach churning painfully, my neck screaming when I tried to lift my chin from my chest where it had bobbed while I was asleep.

  I wanted to go back to sleep.

  I wanted to fall back into that dream.

  I wanted anything but this hopeless reality.

  "Hey," Chris's voice called, making me jolt, looking to find him moving toward me. "Come on. We have five minutes," he said, kneeling down to un-cuff my leg shackle.

  I don't know why I did it.

  Why I didn't just let him in on Lorenzo's last act of kindness toward me?

  I guess because my conscience couldn't take any more good men catching bullets because of me. If he knew, he would be a sort of accessory. If he didn't, he was an innocent bystander.

  So while he worked on the shackle, I lifted my hands to my face, pretending to block a yawn, slipping the key into my mouth, tucking it under my tongue.

  The metallic taste was like a shock of caffeine to my weary system as the shackle finally fell.

  Chris stood, reaching downward, grabbing my forearm, pulling me onto my feet.

  "Christ. You're freezing," he realized, reaching out to chafe my arms, such an unexpectedly sweet gesture that I felt a small smile pulling at my lips despite the dire circumstances.

  "I'm alright," I assured him, even if the cold felt like an ache in my bones at that point.

  "If we have a minute, maybe I can get you something hot to drink," he told me, dropping his hands, moving in front of me. "Wait," he said, stopping me after two feet. "We need to get those off," he told me, motioning to my feet.

  With that, he took off my heels, tucking them back over by my space, before we continued on, heading up the stairs.

  Each step made my stomach drop, made my heart flutter, sure someone was going to come charging out of nowhere, screaming at me to get back in my basement.

  But no one came.

  But even as we broke into the kitchen, Chris doing a quick glance around before he decided the coast was clear, leading me toward a room off of the kitchen.

  "Guest bath," he told me, shuffling me inside. "I'll get the food. Take a second to warm up."

  Fat chance of that since Arturo—like his son—set the air conditioning to arctic, so the air was blasting through the vent to the side of the sink.

  It didn't matter, though. I wasn't going to freeze to death.It was inconvenient and uncomfortable and maybe I did run my hands under hot water before I exited the room, but I was going to be fine.

  Chris was waiting with me with a cup of coffee in one hand, a bottle of water tucked under his arm, and what looked like leftover pasta in a paper bowl, a ton of parmesan cheese shredded on top.

  "Go on," he said, nodding toward the door, glancing around, paranoid.

  I didn't need to be told twice, I flew down the stairs as fast as I dared, worried about them creaking.

  Chris followed behind more slowly, bringing everything over to me.

  I reached for the coffee first, taking a long sip.

  "Eat this," Chris demanded, taking the coffee, setting it down, and handing me the bowl as he set the ankle shackle back into place, giving me a regretful glance as he did so.

  "It's okay," I assured him, nodding. He didn't need to feel guilty.

  I was going to get myself out of this.

  Like I had needed to get myself out of everything else in my life.

  In the end, it always came back to me.

  If I could single-handedly keep the bakery from bankruptcy, if I could keep my father from getting his kneecaps busted, if I could escape kidnappers, if I could pick up a gun and take the life of my own father, I could get myself free.

  This time for good.

  My heart would crush at leaving the bakery behind, knowing that if I was gone, the bank would eventually have to take it. And knowing the neighborhood, it would get turned into some truly tragic trendy coffee place with no such thing as old charm, homemade treats, or friendly service from people who genuinely took pride in their work, in the community.

  My grandfather would understand given the situation.

  Maybe someday, in a new city, far outside the reach of Arturo Costa, I could start again. Maybe I could open a new bakery, name it after my grandfather. No, I didn't have the leather-bound recipe book in his handwriting anymore, but I had the recipes memorized, had them saved in my email in case something ever happened to the original.

  It was not the same.

  But it was something.

  It would still honor his memory.

  And it was something positive to look forward to after all this negativity, all this cold, all this uncertainty, all this pain—both old and new.

  I waited until Chris looked away, spitting my cuff key into my hand, tucking it under my thigh, then setting to work on the pasta as best I could with the awkward cuffs in the way.

  When I finished, he took the bowl, disappearing while I finished my coffee, took one sip of the water, not wanting to put too many fluids in if I didn't know when my next bathroom break might be.

  "I'll keep this with me outside the door. You can just call me if you need a sip. Eventually, Arturo is going to remember you need to eat, drink, and use the bathroom. He's not new at this. He's just..." he trailed off, waving his hand.

  "Okay," I agreed, nodding, not sure if that filled me with a little hope, or a lot of dread. "Thank you again."

  "He'd want it," Chris said, looking grim, making my stomach clench.

  I wanted to ask.

  If he knew anything, if he'd heard anything.

  But, somehow, I also didn't want to know.

  It was better not to know.

  At least u
ntil I was far away from all of this.

  Because I wasn't sure that if I learned he'd survived, I would still be able to do it. Pack up. Run off. Start over.

  I was pretty sure a part of me would need to see him, would feel indebted to him, would maybe even want to stay with him, get that warm feeling back I'd gotten in a dream.

  It was ridiculous. On a rational level, I understood that. But there was no denying the desire was there either.

  I had no one left in the world.

  If I had him, somehow, I think that would supersede the more rational side of me.

  No one wanted to be wholly alone in the world. Even if all he would ever be was a person who had known what I had been through, that would be something, someone, more than I had now.

  But I knew the smartest thing to do was run.

  The only thing to do was run.

  So it was better not to know.

  At least that was what I spent the next several hours trying to convince myself of between little snippets of boredom-induced sleep while the house was quiet.

  I think I heard it the second Arturo's feet hit the floorboards, though. I knew I heard the water running down the pipes as he brushed his teeth. I heard his footsteps on the stairs as he made his way into the kitchen. I heard the bleep of the coffee pot, the sound of the fridge opening and shutting.

  I heard him move over toward the top of the stairs, felt my breath catch in my chest.

  "Who is down there?"

  "Chris," Chris answered, and I couldn't imagine how tired he must have been. I had been catching little cap naps on and off. I had a feeling he didn't.

  "Bring her up to use the john. Toss some food at her. Then stick her back down there. I have shit to do today."

  Thank God.

  I nearly cried in relief.

  With that, Chris made his way in, undoing my ankle, giving me raised brows.

  "You have to be exhausted," I observed.

  "I'll be fine."

  "Once we come back down, you should try to sleep. Even just right outside the door if you don't want to leave."

  "I'm not going to leave. Not until there is someone I trust to replace me."

  Was it good or bad that Emilio hadn't shown up?

  "But you have to sleep."

  "I'll figure it out," he insisted as we heard the door slam upstairs.