Chapter 130 131

Chapter 130 131
Ubert knocks on the door. “Miss, are you okay?” There’s some tension in his voice. I think he knows about the phone. “Do you need some help?”

“Believe it or not, Ubert, I’ve been potty trained.” I go to the door, open it, and shove the cell phone into his chest. “I called my brother,” I tell him. “My dad wanted me to tell him where I was. I didn’t. You can either believe me, because I’m telling the truth, or call me a liar and tell Carlo. But I’m not going quietly this time. I’ve had enough of men telling me what to do.”

Ubert just stares, as though I sound unhinged. Maybe I do.

“You really didn’t tell them anything?” He frowns. “You swear?”

I nod, trying for a smile that comes out more like a sneer. “Really-really.”

“Hmm, okay.” He looks closely at me. “But you can’t do that again, miss. It could get good men killed.”

“‘Good men,’” I laugh, striding down the hallway. “Is there even such a thing?”

I soften a little when I get to the kitchen to see that Ubert has laid out two plates and two generous slices of pie. I turn to find him standing there with a concerned look on his face, eyebrows knit. “What? What is it?”

“Cecilia had the baby,” he says.

“But the due date isn’t for a month!”

He nods matter-of-factly. “Premature, miss. But the baby and Cecilia—his name is Franco; the baby, I mean—they’re out west with her people. Because of the violence, you see.”

I spread my hands. “Congratulations? I’m sorry, Ubert, but I feel like you’re making a point I’m not quite getting.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “We need the boss, miss. And I think he needs you.”

I grit my teeth, thinking about how cold he looked in his office, how he couldn’t give less of a shit if he tried. That’s when I decide that I’m going to get the hell out of here. One way or another, I’m taking my baby and doing what I should’ve done when I first ran from that cartel monster: I’m leaving. I’ll go to California or Mexico or England or fricking Antarctica. I’m done.

“He should’ve thought of that before he treated me like a piece of dirt,” I hiss. “Now, do you want a slice of pie or not? Because I’ll eat both of them. You know I can blame it on the pregnancy hormones.”

Ubert sighs, nods, and picks up a fork.

30

Hazel

Two days pass and I get an eerie sense of déjà vu, only this time there’s this annoying voice at the back of my head telling me to make things right with Carlo. Or to go and see Benjy before he bleeds out from the inside. I hate that voice. It makes me doubt myself. So, whenever this voice tells me to do something, like, say, sit quietly and wait for Carlo to arrive, I do the opposite … like, say, trap Ubert in my bedroom by pushing over a bookshelf after I’ve lured him in there and running for the elevator.

Here’s the thing, though. There’s a fingerprint scanner on the elevator. It beeps twice. Almost like it’s saying nuh-uh. Then there’s a crash behind me and Ubert is standing there, looking angrier than I’ve seen him before.

He shakes his head like a disappointed teacher. “I broke your bookcase,” he says apologetically.

That’s escape attempt #1. Escape attempt number #2 occurs to me when I look out the window and see a fire escape just one story down. All I’d need to do is hang down and drop onto it, and then run. And I’ve got experience in scaling buildings.

But the problem here is that the glass, apparently, is reinforced. So when I throw the metal knife block at it, I have to duck before it takes out my eye. Then Ubert, predictably, arrives.

“Miss,” he says, “I’m going to have to tell Mr. Carlo about this. You know I am.”

I just shrug, looking in wonder at the window. There’s not even a scratch on it.

“Fine,” I say. “Tell him. Can you also give him a message for me, too?”

He raises his eyebrow.

“Tell him to go fuck himself. Like, really, get into yoga and stretch for weeks so he’s flexible enough, and then bend his useless ugly cock around to the right angle and then, like, just do it. Just fuck himself.”

Ubert is smiling at me like I’m crazy. I rant on.

“He might have to put a mirror in front of him as he does it, though. Y’know, since he only cares about himself.”

He shakes his head and leaves silently. I slump on the couch and let my hands drift over my belly. I try not to think how Carlo looked sitting at the side of that pond, Angel’s photograph in his hand. I had no idea that Dad did that to Carlo De Maggio’s family.

But how can he blame me? How is that fair? Maybe it’s because I lied to him. But, okay, so I’m supposed to stroll up to this man who hates my family and tell him I’m his perfect hostage? In what world does that make sense?

I go to bed to take a nap, something I rarely do. I guess it’s the pregnancy. I can’t sleep, though. I just let my hands drift over my belly, imagining what he or she will look like. Will she have my freckles? Carlo’s blue-green eyes? Will he like to cook or paint?

Will he be an asshole, like his dad, or a lunatic, like his mom?

An hour or so drifts by. I head to the studio. I haven’t been in here yet because it’d be like admitting I’m thankful for this little show of humanity. But I’ve gone too long without painting.

I set up my easel and mix my paints and lose myself in the process. It’s almost like the swirling of the mixing paints is hypnotizing me. Enough so that time passes without me even realizing it.

I look up when he walks into the room. He stands with his hands behind his back so that his steel-gray suit tugs at his shoulders. He’s gotten his hair cut, too, shorter and spikier now, but still smoothed back. His blue-green eyes have this weird iciness to them. His shirt is white, and slightly see-through in the sunlight coming in through the window. His ridged abs are just about visible.

“You tried to run away,” he says simply. “Twice. And you called your brother.”

I flinch. I knew Ubert was going to tell him about the second attempt, but the rest? But then I just turn back to my work. “I’m sort of busy here, Carlo. Unless you’re gonna give me permission to get out of here and never come back, can you kind of, like, go screw yourself?”

Carlo walks up behind me, slowly. I feel tiny hairs prick all over my body. Annoying shivers move up my spine. I grab my brush and turn, flinging paint at him. It’s only once the green is splattering his shirt that I realize this could be construed as playful, so I leap from the stool and back up, hands raised.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that. You’re freaking me out.”

“Why?”

“‘Why’?” I mimic back in a high-pitched voice that annoys me as soon as it leaves my throat. “You’re a criminal. A killer. Who knows what you’ll do?”

He narrows his eyes at me. Stop messing around, he’s saying. I hate that I can still read him. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe there’s this alternate universe where I fall into his arms and we just hold each other. We don’t even need to say anything. He knows I forgive him and I know he forgives me. All good.