"You know something funny?" she asked instead of answering directly.
"I could use something funny right about now."
"All my childhood, I remembered my father getting pissed off if my mother and I made anything with peanut butter in it. I always thought it was just a preference thing. But as I was sitting in that basement, I remembered overhearing my father snapping at my mother when he came home and there were Reeses wrappers on the table. He said something about how she knew he couldn't be around that shit when he had his monthly meeting. It never clicked until I heard your father's guard ask the restaurant to make sure the meals were nut-free. Your dad was allergic. And I just so happened to get my hands on a candy bar while in the basement."
"What?" I asked, my voice a hushed whisper. Because it didn't seem possible.
"He had to go," she said, shrugging. "For you. For me. For everyone in this damn city. He had to go. And I had a way to do it. So I did. And then I snuck right back down to the basement, put my cuffs back on, and waited, so that no one could ever suspect me, so that if I got free, I was truly free. No more looking over my shoulder all the time. When the police were called, I was shuffled out so no one found me chained in a basement. On my way out, though, I stopped for one minute to grab your father's wallet. For money to disappear for a while."
"Okay," I said. "I need to know how you got from the basement to my mother's side. And, for that matter, standing over Terry with a bloody letter opener," I said, reaching up to pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on.
"Are you okay? Should you be under all this stress? You were just shot in the head," she reminded me.
"Babe, my dad is dead, my mom is alive, and I am suddenly the boss of all bosses. There's no way not to be stressed about this. But I need to hear it, so give it to me straight. How did you find my mom? How did you get her out? Where is Terry's body? I need the details," I told her, giving her knee a squeeze.
Then she gave them to me.
Chapter Fourteen
Giana
It was absurd, of course.
So absurd that I didn't trust my eyes, didn't want to believe what the images meant in the long term.
But there was no denying it, either.
There was the letter. It was a nothing letter, really, some rambling nonsense about some house that some guy named Terry had inherited when a great uncle died. Along with that was a newspaper clipping of a house that had once belonged to the sheriff, that had been used to also serve as the town's only jail. Cells and everything in the basement.
It wasn't until the very end that something became significant.
"I was going to sell it. But I was thinking. That bitch can't up and leave you, take your boys like that. And we both know you'd never get custody. Just saying. It's an option. If you don't like the other one."
It didn't take a genius to know the other option was to kill her.
And, why wouldn't he kill her? That was the most rational—in a screwed up way—answer to that situation.
But, as I now knew about Arturo Costa, he was just a small man with a big ego and a lot of ugliness. He needed to be in control in all things in all ways.
What a blow to the pride it must have been to have a wife that hated you so much that she wanted to run and take your kids with her, likely never to see you again.
He couldn't let her do that.
And he was too little of a man to simply handle it.
No.
He was the sort of man who wanted to make people suffer, who got off on that control.
So while the rational side of my head refused to accept that anyone could lock someone up for years, I had a feeling it was exactly the kind of insane thing Arturo was capable of.
And maybe it wasn't even that crazy.
Every year or so, some story would hit the news about a missing woman being found in some creep's cellar, sometimes having been there for decades, bearing and raising children while never seeing the light of day.
People could do some sick things.
Men who wanted power over women, well, they could do the worst things of all.
Like trapping a wife in an old jail just to know she could never get away from you, would likely be forced to endure visits with you over the years while she sat there, her life rotting away, her boys growing up without her.
I sat in a makeshift cell for just a couple days, and I could feel insanity tugging at the corners of my mind.
I mean, if you had told me just two weeks before that I was capable of using someone's food allergy against them, to kill them, I would have said you were insane.
But people became a little more feral when treated like animals.
Some ingrained killer instinct had kicked in.
I couldn't fathom in what ways my head would be screwed with if I had been kept down there for weeks, for months, let alone years, let alone a huge chunk of my life.
I guess I would find out, though.
What other choice did I have?
Arturo was dead.
If there was no more boss, why the hell would his wife be kept alive when she could clearly could point fingers about her imprisonment?
I wanted to be free.
But, I imagined, so did she.
Maybe I should have gone to the cops.
But if there was one thing I was starting to question, it was their ability to do anything about this reign of terror that Arturo had inflicted upon the city.
Palms could be greased.
Or people could be afraid for their lives, for their loved one's lives, so they didn't go after the Families.
I freed myself.
I could free her.
And then I would be done.
I would be able to rest easy.
Okay. I would probably need a shitton of therapy before I could rest easy. But one day. It was a goal worth working toward.
Decision made, I grabbed some shoes and a couple basic self-care items, so I could look less homeless as I hopped on a train out of the city, then took three more trains and two buses before I finally found myself on the block where I would find the simple red brick building.
From the outside, it looked like any other house in the area. It was kept well, the lawn was mowed, the windows were clean. There was nothing suspicious about it. And I guess that was the point. No one would ever walk past that house and suspect someone was being held captive in the basement.
Not wanting to attempt anything in the daylight, I spent some of the precious money I had to get myself something normal to wear, so people didn't keep looking at me sideways. It was hard to miss a strange woman in a bright red dress first thing in the morning. On a weekday. In a small town.
Changed, I made my way back toward the house.
From what I could tell, it was empty.
No one had come or gone all day. No lights were on inside.
Getting close, there did seem to be a radio playing, but when I glanced in the backdoor, it was just sitting there in the kitchen unattended.
I made short work of the kitchen door, having a self-satisfied smile at the fact that the mafia seemed to believe that their reputation alone would scare off anyone who dared poke around their property.
The inside of the house was as bare as I had been expecting. The furniture looked dated, likely belonging to the dead sheriff. Everything was neat, but cobwebs graced the corners, dust covered various surfaces.
Paranoia had me inching my way through the house, walking on tiptoes across the hardwood, wincing anytime one of the boards squeaked.
I did three laps around the house, heart pounding harder and harder each passing moment, trying to find a way into the basement.
Circling back, I found a door in the kitchen that I originally wrote off as a pantry, but when I pulled it open, found a steel door behind.
I could pick a normal lock. A prison cell lock? Not so much.
Turning back, I carefully opened all the cabinets and drawers in the kitc
hen before finally finding what I was looking for. An almost comical round ring full of keys.
"I swear to all that is holy," a female voice called as I started down the stairs, "if you don't bring me something other than stale bread and sun butter this time, I will claw your fucking eyes out, Terry."
I shouldn't have been able to smile. It was a terrible situation. This woman had been held captive for a huge chunk of her life. But a smile tugged at my lips at realizing that Arturo hadn't won. She refused to lose her spirit. You had to respect a woman like that.
"Who the hell are you?" the voice asked as I made it to the bottom landing.
The woman in the picture had been younger, her dark hair flawless, her body womanly and soft, but fit. This woman was years older, of course, her gray roots were growing in, her body was made thin from, apparently, only being allowed to eat sun butter—not peanut butter—sandwiches. Which sort of confirmed my idea that Arturo hadn't just locked her up and thrown away the key, that he came to visit her.
"My name is Giana," I told her, giving her a wobbly smile as I looked at the cell that had been her home for so long.
There was the expected metal bunk, stainless steel toilet and sink, and a little cement cubby with a drain in the floor that served as the shower.
No privacy.
Nothing soft save for the blanket on the bed and a pillow that made my neck hurt just thinking about it.
The shelf was lined with books, which looked to be the only form of entertainment this woman had been allowed.
"Giana," she repeated, brows pinching. "Since when does Arturo hire women? He's terrified of us."
"He didn't hire me. He stuck me in a basement," I told her. "I got out," I said, waving a hand. "When I found out you were in a basement, I decided to get you out before I am done with this fucking family for good."
"How did you get out? I know that basement. There was no way out."
"I had some help," I admitted, pain stabbing in my chest at the memory of Lorenzo passing me the key. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
"Celeste," she told me, offering me a strained smile.
"Celeste," I repeated. "I just need to figure out which key it is, and I will get you out of here," I told her, walking over to the door.
"Why would you risk this? Arturo will kill you when he finds out. But not before he plays with you first."
"Arturo won't be playing with anyone," I told her, grumbling when the third key didn't fit.
"Wait. What? What are you saying?"
"That Arturo Costa is dead."
"You're sure about that?"
"I did it, so yes," I told her. "Got it," I said with a smile as the key went in and turned, making the metallic shriek of the door fill the empty space.
Celeste didn't immediately move to walk out. And I guess when you were caged for so long, there had to be some uncertainty about leaving your prison.
"You, a little girl, killed the Capo dei Capi of New York City?" she asked, disbelieving.
"I'm not that little. And, apparently, a woman can only be beat down so long before she starts fighting back. Luckily, men like Arturo never think women like us are capable of being a threat to them. I slipped peanut dust in his coffee," I told her, still finding it hard to wrap my head around that. It almost felt like it had been another person who had escaped that basement, done the deed, then locked herself back up.
"Okay. You are going to need to start from the beginning," Celeste told me, finally taking a few tentative steps forward.
So then I did, going through the whole ordeal.
"He killed my boy?" Celeste asked when I was done, eyes swimming, making me realize mine were as well.
"I can't say for sure, but I think so. It... it didn't look good. And I feel like if he was alive, he would have found a way to get back to the basement, or get me out."
"He was a good man, my son?" Celeste asked, needing to know. It had to kill her knowing her sons had become adults without her being there to see it. She'd likely worried herself sick that they might have turned into their father without her there to guide them to be better men. "He had to be to try to save his girl."
"I wasn't his. Not really," I told her, even though that stabbing sensation inside intensified.
"You would have been. If you two had a chance."
"You don't know that."
"I know these kinds of men. Women are background noise in their lives. Until the right one comes along and makes them pay attention. Enz was paying attention to you. If life was fair, you would have been his girl. What about Santi?"
"Santi?" I repeated.
"Santiago. Santi. Lorenzo's brother. Is he alive?"
"Oh," I said, feeling bad that I didn't know his name. "Yes. I mean... as of the last I heard Lorenzo talk about him. He didn't say much, so I don't know much. But his brother never joined the Family. He got married young and had a little boy. That's really all I know. He will be so happy to see you, though."
"I'm a grandmother," Celeste said, trying to wrap her head around that. "I barely got to be a mother, and now I am a grandmother. I guess I look the part," she said, reaching up to rub a hand down her hair. "What is happening with the Family? I want to go see my boy. He's all I have left. Is it safe?"
"I honestly don't know. I got out, found out about you, and came here. I have no idea what is going on there. If Arturo and Lorenzo are dead, who gets to be the boss?"
"War will break out," Celeste told me, calm, confident, knowing more about the mafia than I likely ever would. "The Five Families will all vie for power. Terry will likely try to take the position. But he won't keep it. He's not the kind of man who inspires loyalty."
"What about Emilio?" I asked. I knew that Christopher, the other guards I had met, even Brio seemed lower on the food chain. "Lorenzo always treated Emilio like an equal."
"If he wanted it, he could try for it. But if adult Emilio is anything like young Emilio, he doesn't want that. Can we go upstairs?" Celeste asked, gaze on the steps. "I haven't seen anything but this basement for longer than I care to think about. It would be nice to see something else. And maybe see if there is anything to eat up there."
With that, we made our way upstairs, Celeste finding an old block of cheese in the fridge, taking bites out of it like it was a sub as we walked through the house, Celeste claiming that there would be money hidden somewhere, that we would both need all we could get until she got back to the city, and I got wherever I was going.
We eventually found some, stashed in a faux book in the study. Crime & Punishment. A little joke on Terry's part, it seemed.
"How much?" Celeste asked, sitting down on the couch with a groan, not having touched anything soft in years.
"Looks like ten thousand," I said, shaking my head. I'd never touched ten grand before, but here it was, sitting forgotten in a book in a nearly abandoned house like it was no big deal.
"You take most of it," Celeste said, rubbing her feet on the carpet.
"What? No. We will split it."
"No need," she said, shaking her head. "I don't give a shit what goes on with the family, but I am Arturo's wife. And him being dead means I get everything. At least everything legal. I just need enough to get me there. And a lot of food on the way," she said, giving me a weak smile.
"I can't imagine how—"
"Well well well," a male voice said, making my stomach drop, making Celeste's head whip to the doorway where a man I wasn't familiar with stood, gun pointed on her. "What do we have here?"
"Terry," Celeste said, smile cold, eyes level with the man who had been her warden for so many years. If I lived a thousand years, I was pretty sure I would never be as badass as Celeste as she slowly unfolded from her position, seemingly unconcerned about the gun pointed at her. "Came to deal with the loose ends before you make a play for power?" she asked, making her way closer to him.
"You should have been taken care of years ago."
"Probably," she agreed. "Yet here we are."
"Who the hell is she?" Terry asked, jerking his chin toward me, but his focus was on Celeste who was still advancing on him, slowly, like a cat. Did she plan on trying to take him down? Sure, she was a tall woman. But years in a cell with bad nutrition had made her thin. I couldn't imagine she would overpower Terry. He might have been older, but he was bigger.
"Oh that? That's the woman who killed Art," Celeste declared proudly, almost like a mom would.
"What? No."
"Tell him, Giana, darling."
"I, ah, yeah," I agreed, nodding, playing along, hoping she had a plan. "That was me. Peanuts in his coffee."
Terry glanced at me for the first time, surprised, confused.
It was the shortest of glances.
But long enough.
Celeste darted to the side, hand reaching out, closing over the handle to a letter opener.
The rest of it seemed to happen on fast-forward.
Celeste lunging.
Terry yelling, deflecting, getting a cut to the side of his hand that had the gun flying out into the hallway, sliding across the floor, out of reach.
It was seconds, it seemed, between when Celeste lunged, and when the letter opener flew from her hand as she went down, Terry coming down on top of her, hands going around her neck.
Her body writhed; her hands punched, slapped, scratched.
To no avail.
He was going to kill her.
Right there in front of me.
Her gaze cut to me, her eyes darting to the side, making me follow their direction, seeing the letter opener.
I didn't think.
I didn't consider my body count, the dark marks on my soul, which circle of hell I would be suffering in for all eternity.
I rushed over, ducked, grabbed the letter opener, charged forward, and stabbed it into the side of Terry's throat.
"God, I was covered in blood," Celeste said, snapping me back to the present, shaking her head as she looked at her son. "I never thought I was going to get it out of my hair. In fact, that was what I was attempting to do in the kitchen sink when this lovely young gentleman showed up," she went on, reaching over to pat Christopher's hand.
The Woman in the Trunk Page 20