He wanted to replace Carmine. The idea of getting engaged to another man, a total stranger, some Russian mobster from Dallas, made me utterly sick to my stomach. I tried to picture the look on Mal’s face when he found out, and it tore my guts to pieces. I wanted to scream and shout and cry, but if I showed any of the emotions that coursed through me, then my father would keep me locked in this dungeon.
I couldn’t stay down here. Not now, not with my dad making moves. This marriage and alliance with the Russians meant Dad was shoring up his power and ensuring nobody could stand against him. He was still vulnerable, but he wouldn’t be for long.
We had to move. I had to talk to Mal and figure out what we can do.
God, another husband. Another man. Another arranged marriage.
At least with Carmine I knew him and thought I could be happy. Even if it wasn’t love, at least there’d be friendship. I could find love in other ways—and if not, there were a million different shapes a life could take, and maybe mine with Carmine could’ve been good. Even if it wasn’t what I really wanted.
This though, this was too much. Some stranger.
That’s all I was to my father. I was a game piece, and so long as I remained useful, he’d keep me around. But if he understood the depths of my loathing for him, I suspected he’d toss me away and get rid of me before I could make a move against him.
I couldn’t give him that chance.
“You ready?” Rolando stood in the doorway, looking dour.
I got up and brushed myself off. I could smell myself, and it was ripe.
“Your face is healing nicely,” I said, smiling sweetly.
“Yours too.” He turned away. “Come on.”
I followed him into the hall and upstairs. The light felt overwhelming, and my legs were unsteady and weak from being cooped up in a tiny room. I concentrated on my feet as Rolando led me through the house and upstairs. He deposited me in my bedroom and slammed the door behind him.
I lost it when I turned on the water in my bathroom. I cried so hard I thought I might throw up. I climbed into the shower in my clothes and let the water soak me through and I sobbed, arms around my legs, holding myself. I sat on the cold floor, body racked with sorrow, rage, anguish, and hate, and knew there was nothing I could do.
Not yet, at least.
But I wasn’t giving up.
As much as I wanted to curl up and die, I couldn’t do that. Not to Mal, and not to Carmine’s memory.
I had revenge to keep me going.
* * *
Hours later, in the middle of the night, I snuck into the hallway.
Dad’s guards kept outside for the most part, but I was careful. I walked slow, staying close to the wall, and took the back steps down to the first floor. I turned through the kitchen, down a side hall, and stopped outside of a big oak door toward the front of the building. I listened at the keyhole, barely breathing, before I pushed it open and went inside.
Dad’s office was empty. The fireplace was cold and dead and his desk was a looming monstrosity in the far corner. He had books on bookshelves, small statues, paintings, trappings of power and wealth he’d never had before. It was all show, all false. Meant to present a certain image.
But I knew my father. Mauro Balestra was a brutal man. He was a rapid bull prepared to charge and kill anything that caught his eye. He wasn’t an intellectual, or an aristocrat, or anything but a petty thug with a clever mind and a love of death. He was a sick murderer, and didn’t belong anywhere near this oak and mahogany cage.
I sat behind the desk and pulled the phone over, heart racing. My stomach was sour and my mouth was dry. If someone caught me in here, Dad would kill me. No doubt in my mind. He’d find some other way to cement an alliance with the Russians from Dallas. He’d cut my throat and hang me upside down in the back yard and bleed me like a pig. The men would roast and eat my rotting flesh.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number.
That number got me through my hell. I ran it through my brain, over and over. A hundred times. A thousand. I kept my eyes shut as I raised the receiver to my ear and listened to it ring.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I kept silent and still.
Mal picked up. “Who is this?” he grunted. He sounded tired, like he’d just woken up.
“It’s me,” I whispered.
He was quiet. Then: “Fuck, Cap. Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”