The Woman in the Trunk

Now, I was just cold. And exposed.

Upstairs, I could hear the muffle of male voices, the movement of feet, the slamming and shuffling and dragging that must have been my father's body being moved.

I probably should have felt some remorse then.

For what I had done.

I wasn't a killer.

I had a gun out of fear, because I lived alone, because my father had been connected to the mob, because I had been weak and defenseless once, and I didn't ever want to feel that way again.

And, yes, I had taken that gun to a range and learned how to use it, finding something cathartic in doing so, something I needed in my stressful little life.

But I hadn't ever shot a living target before.

I was sure I never would.

Or that I would at least hesitate to do so, to possibly take someone's life.

And I damn sure figured I would feel regret or pain or sickness over doing just that.

Yet here I was. Just twenty or so moments after shooting my own father dead one floor above, and I felt none of those things.

I felt vindicated.

I felt justified.

I felt stronger.

Stronger.

Yes, that was the feeling.

I'd been beat down so much in my life, by people, by circumstance. I don't know if I ever realized just how small I felt until right then, when I felt bigger, stronger.

Maybe this was why people got into lives of crime. Maybe this feeling could be addictive. Especially if you had been denied it your entire life.

I took a deep breath, smelling must and stale air and the wet that created mildew in all corners of basements.

I was in a mafia boss's holding room. Chained to a wall. My hands cuffed.

And I'd never felt quite as powerful before.

Maybe Lorenzo would be able to smooth over what I had done to my father. Maybe he would get me free, with minimal damage to show for my time spent here.

But as I sat there, I made a solemn vow that I would never—fucking never—feel weak again. Be used again. Be manipulated and under-appreciated again.

I would never be made to feel small.

I didn't care what it might take to secure those things for myself.

I didn't care if I had to kill every single Goddamn member of the Five Families to earn my freedom.

Maybe Arturo Costa had seen a small, easy target when he'd ordered me kidnapped.

What he didn't realize was that in doing so, he'd freed me.

And he had no fucking idea what I would do never to be caged again.

Sure, maybe Lorenzo would save me.

If not, though, well, I was going to have to save myself, wasn't I?Chapter ElevenLorenzoMy father was having his very own version of a panic attack when I made my way back upstairs, every inch of me wanting to jog back down the steps, grab Giana, and make a run for it.

Two things stopped me.

We would never make it.

And everything we had collectively been through at the hands of our shitty fathers would be for nothing if we ended up with bullets ripping through our bodies.

I had to be smart.

I had to keep my fucking feelings out of this shit.

My father was pacing the dining room, his hand gripping the gun Giana had used to kill her father, the other raking through his thinning hair.

"Jesus fucking Christ. Goddamn it. What the fuck just happened in here?" he mumbled to himself, clearly starting to spiral.

And if he got past the baffled phase, he was going to get angry.

We needed to move and fast.

Seeming to hear my internal monologue, Emilio gave me a tight nod, moving off to the stairs, to jog up the stairs.

"Where the fuck is he going?" my father demanded, waving the hand with the gun outward, making one of his men flinch. Everyone who knew Arturo Costa—no matter how loyal they might be—knew to be fearful when the man was losing control of a situation.

"To go steal some luggage," I explained, voice calm, reasonable, not too authoritative, because he would lose his shit if he realized I was taking control of the situation he should have already gotten a hold of. "Figure those assholes next door would question a rolled-up carpet," I added, knowing I was scoring points by dissing the neighbors. Those "assholes" were actually a nice, older couple who had lived in their brownstone since my grandfather bought his.

"Those fucking nosy bastards. Probably already called the cops," he said, eyes wide, panic intensifying.

"They're deaf as shit. You told me that the last time someone popped off by accident when they were cleaning their gun."

"Right. Yeah. Probably thought it was just thunder if they did hear it."

That was unlikely. No one confused gunshots for thunder. For fireworks? For a car backfiring? Sure. But not fucking thunder.

"You still have that giant suitcase from your trip out to Chicago, right?" I asked, cringing at the memory of that shitshow. The Chicago families weren't like the New York ones, weren't quite as under the thumb as my father's ego wanted them to be. It had been ugly, with all sides leaving pissed off and losing respect for one another. If I ever got my place as Capo dei Capi, that was yet another thing I needed to try to repair.