The Woman in the Trunk

His gaze roamed over Gigi for a long moment before shifting to her father who rose to his feet, holding out his hand to be shaken by Paulie's.

"Long time no see, Leon," Paulie said, further confusing me. "What's it been? Five? Six years?"

There was something in his words, an undercurrent that I couldn't quite make out, heavy with meaning hanging thick in the air.

"Yes, somewhere around there," Leon agreed, giving the man a hearty handshake before dropping it.

My gaze shifted to Giana, finding her gaze on her father, disbelieving, then shifting to Paulie's hand once again.

I was so distracted by her reaction that I missed whatever occurred between the two men before Paulie was saying his goodbyes and walking out of the room.

There was a pause, then the slam of the front door.

And, somehow, that seemed to penetrate through whatever fog was swirling through Giana's mind.

It happened so fast.

I was watching her and I couldn't have predicted it, couldn't have stopped it.

One second, she was sitting beside me, confused, shocked, completely and utterly still.

The next, she was on her feet, her handcuffed hands reaching across the table, grabbing my father's discarded gun, lifting, aiming, and emptying the magazine.

Into her father.

Her fucking father.

There was collective cursing from all of us in the room, the rushing in of my father's men.

My hands immediately went for Giana's, pulling the gun from her shaking hands, putting it down on the table at my side.

"What the fuck just happened?" my father asked. It was rare for him to sound shocked, but there was no denying it in his voice right that moment. It was in all our minds, in fact.

What the fuck just happened?

There was no need to rush to Leon's body. Clearly, Giana had spent some time in a range in her life. Because all but one of the bullets had landed in her father's chest cavity. He was dead before he hit the ground. Still, Chris went over, bent down, checked for a pulse, and gave us a head shake before standing.

"Fuck!" my father snapped, reaching up to rake a hand through his hair. "Get her the fuck out of here for a minute. I can't think straight with her shaking like that," my father demanded, his guards moving forward.

"I got it," I said, holding up a hand.

"Basement," my father added as I grabbed the small chain between Giana's hands, pulling until she fell into step with me.

I wanted to reach for her.

I wanted to pick her up, carry her against my chest.

There was something genuinely broken in her right that moment. And part of me responded, wanted to grab some glue, and put her back together.

But no one could know that.

No one could see that.

It was a surefire way to sign her death sentence. And things were already bad enough for her right then.

I pulled her down the hall, into the kitchen, then down the first step before reaching for her, and lifting her up to carry her down.

Her body was strangely loose through all of this, as limp as a child who's deep asleep.

The basement was partially finished, the area around the landing and to the left was a game room with a pool table, card table, a massive TV, and a full bar. A couple leather armchairs were sitting in the opening.

Guard chairs.

Because the other side of the basement wasn't just where the furnace and water heater were situated.

It was where my father had a holding room set up.

For people he wanted to question.

People like Giana.

Fuck.

No.

That couldn't happen.

I had to somehow convince him that I would be the better choice. Maybe spout some shit about having gained her confidence, that she would give me the truth with less fuss.

Which was true.

But it would also allow me to take whatever truth she fed me, and twist it, to make my father think twice about how he would handle the situation.

I moved in through the security door, feeling the cool and damp already start to penetrating me. It seeped in through the cement floor, the cinder block walls.

My father had the furnace and water heater closed off in their own space, likely doing so to prevent any prisoner from ripping some piece of it in desperation, and using it for an attack. The rest of the space was sparse, unfinished floors and walls with a wooden beam ceiling. And a couple sets of shackles attached to the wall.

My stomach twisted, at the idea of putting them on her, but also at knowing I didn't have much choice.

I bent down, carefully placing Giana on the floor, grabbing one of the lower shackles, attaching the cuff to one of her ankles, leaving the other free.

"Giana," I called, voice soft, reaching for her chin, lifting it, waiting for her gaze to find mine. "What the fuck just happened?" I asked when she finally looked at me.