The Woman in the Trunk

This is the part where things were going to get even more touchy.

Because he couldn't call Paulie.

This was not going to be good.

As if sensing the train of my thoughts, Giana's gaze finally met mine, her brows pinching at whatever she found on my face.

Shock.

Fear.

Resignation.

Those were all things I was feeling right then.

She could have seen any—or all—of them.

"That's not going to be possible," I told my father, making him half-turn to look at me.

"What's not possible?"

"Having Paulie over."

"Why not?" my father demanded, words a snapping sound, already sensing I was about to say something he didn't want to hear.

"Because he's in a couple garbage bags being transported to a safe location."

"A couple of garbage bags?" my father repeated, not great with subtlety.

"I always believed our family was against pedophilia. I didn't want him disgracing our name. I handled it."

"Who the fuck gave you the order to do that?" my father shouted, loud enough for Giana to shock back.

I couldn't blame her.

My father's anger was of the explosive sort.

If you weren't prepared for it, it could be scary.

I, however, had been on the receiving end of his rage since I was a kid.

I wasn't worried about his words, his tone.

What mattered right now were his actions.

"He was our best collector. He brought in more than all of the others combined. Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"He touched children."

"Who the fuck cares what he did if he got the job done?" he roared back, making my stomach twist.

It was one thing to believe your father was scum. It was a complete other to learn that there wasn't a word to describe how disgusting he was. That he could look the other way to children being abused.

This was the man I'd pledged loyalty to.

I didn't see the gun coming out.

I should have expected it, but I was reeling from the revelation.

I sure as fuck felt it when the bullet ripped through my shoulder, though.

Giana's screech pierced my ears as the pain gripped my system, as Chris burst into the room, and the men upstairs came running across the floor, down the stairs, and in as well.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" my father raged, waving the gun, making his men jerk around, not wanting to be on the receiving end of a bullet meant for me. "You think you're the boss of this family?" he asked, expecting an answer, needing me to admit I wasn't.

"I thought I was following through with the oaths this family has made."

"You don't get to make those fucking decisions. Those are my fucking decisions," he raged, flipping the gun in his hand, whipping me across the face with it.

And I had no choice but to stand there and take it.

In the mafia, if you raised hands to a made man, you signed your death warrant.

That was just any old made man.

You simply didn't raise a hand to a boss.

That didn't happen.

Sure, he might kill me for what I'd done.

But if I put hands on him, I would be dead for sure.

I was placing my bet.

Taking the beating so I might live.

And my father had always been good with a beating.

It was harder now that I was taller than him, bigger and stronger than him. But he managed to make up for those shortcomings with a boundless amount of rage.

It wasn't long before I was tasting blood, and felt the tell-tale crack of a broken rib, the sharp pain that accompanied it.

A part of me couldn't help but wonder what Giana was thinking as I stood there with my arms at my side, taking a beating.

Did she think I was weak?

Did she think I was afraid of my father?

Or did she understand what was happening?

As the gun collided with my jaw, I finally swallowed my pride enough to glance over, finding her shifted up onto her knees, the chain straining against the wall because she had tried to move closer, wanted to do something.

Her wide eyes were on mine.

Fearful.

Concerned.

For me?

For her?

Maybe I would never know.

Because my father's rage only seemed to grow when I didn't cry out, didn't curse, didn't beg for mercy.

"Get on your fucking knees," he demanded, making me suck in a deep breath as I moved to do so.

I wasn't a man who truly understood fear.

Fear did nothing.

Acceptance of inevitable fate was a prouder way to go, in my humble opinion.

I could feel the cool of the cement through the knees of my slacks as I carefully went down closer to Giana, as I reached discreetly into my pocket, pulling what I was looking for out, tucking it into my fist, waiting for the opportunity to give it to her, to give her a fighting chance.

If I didn't make it out of this, I wanted her to be able to.

Emilio would find a way to help her. He would know I would want that.