I’d spent most of my time alone inside. My father had never let me go out. Tutors had come to me. I’d been homeschooled all my life, and if I’d wanted to see a movie, I’d gone with a chaperone. I’d been sheltered, tucked away to gather dust until the day he’d told me that I was to marry Carmine Falsone, the don’s only son. Suddenly, I’d mattered.
Maddie put a plate of food down and a big mug of black coffee. I thanked her and started eating, surprised at my hunger. The kitchen got quiet after a minute, and I looked up to see my father standing at the head of the table, watching me with a frown.
I sat back and tried to smile. If I didn’t smile, he’d only get mad. I didn’t let him see the fear or the disgust. I sat up straight and said, “Good morning, Daddy.”
He nodded. “Good morning, Capri. How are the eggs?”
“Good. You should have some.”
He grunted and sat next to me on the built-in bench. I tried to shift away, but his hand grabbed my knee and held me in place.
“I heard a rumor last night, and I wanted to hear your opinion.”
My father was a brawny man. He was taller than me and much heavier, with square shoulders and massive hands. He looked like a bulldog, and even though he was in his sixties, he still had an aura of danger about him. The expensive, sleek suits he’d taken to wearing in the last few months and the fancy haircut did nothing to ease the edge of danger in his movements.
“I don’t know how I could help, Daddy.”
He let out a breath from his nose. “It concerns that boy Mal. I know you were friendly with him before Carmine passed, God rest his soul. He was in prison, yes?”
“Yes,” I said, heart racing. Was Mal okay? I was due to meet him that night.
“The rumors suggest he’s out. Have you heard anything about that?”
I swallowed and steeled myself. I met his gaze. “No, Daddy. I haven’t spoken to him since—”
Father’s hand snapped up from my knee and bashed into my face. He grabbed me by the cheeks, his fingers and thumb digging into my flash, and bashed the back of my skull against the wall. I gasped, dizzy, shocked with pain, as small curling bolts of light flickered along the edges of my vision.
Father released me.
“I’ll try again,” he said calmly. “Have you heard anything about that boy?”
“No,” I said, blinking rapidly, trying to clear my sight and failing. My head throbbed like crazy.
Maddie stared, her mouth open. When I met her eyes, she looked down at her pan and started whistling like nothing had happened.
“Hm,” Father said, still staring at me. “I want you to promise me something, Capri. If that boy contacts you, I want you to tell me. Find out where he’s staying, and tell me. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Daddy.” I braced myself for another blow, but it never came.
Instead, he took my plate and began to eat.
I shifted away. I didn’t dare get up, but I put space between him and me. He looked up and smiled at Maddie. He could be charming when he wanted to be.
“Lovely eggs this morning,” he said.
“Thank you kindly, sir,” Maddie answered, beaming the biggest, fakest grin I’d ever seen.
She’d get better at ignoring the abuse. Everyone else did. She’d accept it, maybe hate it, but accept it, or she’d quit and never come back. Either way, she’d ignore it.
I’d learned a long time ago that there’d never be any help for me.
“Why don’t you run along, Capri,” Father said.
I jumped to my feet. “Yes, Daddy.” I hurried away, walking fast.
Maddie shoved a fresh mug of coffee into my hands as I went past. I paused, surprised by the gesture. She winked at me.
I hurried out of the kitchen, the sound of my father’s fork on the plate chasing me down the hall.
It was the same sound my skull would make under a sharp knife when he decided to carve me to pieces.
Chapter 4
Mal
The lights were dim in the Lowdown. A power trio played some loose blues on a low stage, barely more than some plywood stacked on top of a few cinderblocks. The bassist bobbed his head while the drummer kept a steady, pulsing beat, and the guitar player was pretty good, hitting licks like his fingers were made of lightning. I drank a beer and felt sweat roll down my back.
A few guys in denim and plaid sat near the stage. One had on a big cowboy hat. Everyone in Texas thought they were a cowboy. None of them were. Real cowboys were ranch hands. Rough guys with no prospects. Guys from Mexico and runaway slaves. Cowboy tradition had come from Spain a long time ago. Now it was dug deep into the American mythos. Like John Wayne had made that shit up. All a bunch of garbage. I finished my beer.