Chapter 135 137

Chapter 135 137
He’s lying. I can tell. But Dad narrows his eyes as though trying to remember. That’s when I see how dry his lips are, how his cheeks are flushed bright red, the capillaries popping around his eyes. It looks like he’s been hitting the whiskey even harder than usual. “Of course I do,” he rumbles. “But you won’t be able to protect her forever.” He laughs, ruffling Benjy’s hair. “You always were a soft boy, weren’t you? But you’ll do your duty tonight. I know you will.”

Dad turns and walks away without glancing at me again. I fight the urge to curse at him. I want to tell him that Emily isn’t crippled, not even close, that she flies higher than he ever will with her amazing imagination. I want to tell him that Alda is more beautiful than any supermodel when her fingers are flecked with flour and she can’t stop smiling.

I want to tell him that there’s nothing in this world that’ll make me stop fighting for my new family. For Carlo. For us.

“Are you thirsty?” Benjy asks.

“Are you really going to let him hurt me?” I counter.

He sighs. “It’s not as simple as you’re making it out,” he says. “Daddy has been hurt, too. You saw his hand. Or where his hand should be. It’s not fair that he only has one hand now. He needs two.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes at me. “Can I ask you something, sis?”

“I’m not exactly going anywhere.”

“Do you love him? Y’know, really love him?”

“Yes,” I say without having to think about it. “I do.”

“Oh.” Benjy smiles strangely. “I bet that feels nice, y’know, to feel something that strongly. I’ll go and get you that water. Your man will be on the way soon. We’re gonna call him. We’re gonna have a party.”

He walks away. I strain at the zip-ties around my wrist, but they’re too tight. The same with my ankles. So instead I do something I haven’t done in years.

I pray.

I ask God, my fairy godmother, my guardian angel, or whoever or whatever might be listening, to convince Carlo to get as far away from here as I can. To forget about me, to not let him risk his life for me. Then I also ask him or her or it to send Carlo here as fast as possible to save our baby, because Dad can do whatever he wants to me, but if he hurts our baby, I’ll kill him. Even if I have to come back as a ghost, I’ll kill him.

I wonder if any of the spirits who might be listening can make sense of my rambling. I guess this is why I haven’t prayed in years.

Because all I hear back is silence.

33

Carlo

I call every single one of my men as I speed toward Hazel’s apartment, trying to figure out if any of them are closer. It turns out the Albino is, so when I get there, Ubert has already been taken to the hospital. The Albino has stayed behind, carefully picking over the apartment for clues. I jog through the door, ignoring the smear of blood on the floor, a cold rage moving through me.

The anger is aimed at myself as much as the Elephant. I never should’ve pushed Hazel away. I should’ve kept her close, where I could keep her safe. That monster has my woman. And my baby.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Maury turns to me. “Ubert might die,” he sighs. “A chi bene crede, Dio provvede. I have sent guards with him. We are spread thin, Carlo. I do not like it. No, there are no clues here. There is nothing. Just broken glass and spots of blood in the bathroom.”

“We’ll listen to the audio recordings from the bugs,” I argue. “There might be something there.”

We walk back across the apartment, heading for the door, past the severed finger that belonged to Remo, the guard at the downstairs elevator. Benjamin didn’t kill him, though, which surprises me.

On our way we walk by the kitchen. Something in my chest constricts at the sight of the soufflé; the notion of Hazel awake in the middle of the night, baking, restless. She has left floury fingerprints on the kitchen island. I stare at them, remembering the feel of her hand, wondering if I’ll ever get to hold her again.

“Carlo,” the Albino asks. “Are we going?”

“Yes, we’re going.”

We go down to the security room and listen to the bug. Let me help him. Of course Hazel’s first instinct was to help Ubert. I flinch at the sounds of the struggle, but can’t help but smile at Hazel cursing at the men, calling them every name she can think of. There’s fire in her still.

Jesus, what if her father puts it out? What if he doesn’t kill her, but keeps her alive to torture her, makes it last years? What if one day he sends his project to me, a broken woman, a shadow of herself?

I shake my head, rising unsteadily to my feet. I feel sick. I need to crush the Elephant’s throat. I need to kill something. I love her so much. Goddamn it, why didn’t I just swallow my pride and tell her that? What the hell is the matter with me?

“Have we got word from them yet?” I ask.

“No,” the Albino says. “But we will, Carlo. You know how this works.”

We head back to the mansion and coordinate the search from there: using every contact we have to find where Benjy’s car went after he left the apartment building, losing the trail as they headed toward the woods. Scanning the Irish businesses to see if they’re holding her there. Basically, just waiting for the call we all know is coming.

The sun is slowly rising when my cell phone finally rings. They’re using Hazel’s line.

It’s Fergal Sweeney.

“It’s been a long time, Carlo,” he says as though we’re old friends.

I find myself scraping my fingernails along the desk. They’re blunt, and yet I still leave jagged marks. I wish I could leap through the phone and throttle him. “She better be safe,” I snarl. “If you’ve touched one hair on her fucking head …”

“A smarter man would have pretended not to care about her,” he says. “You disappoint me. You are not the man your father was.”

“I need to hear that she’s alive. If not, this is a waste of time. It’s war.”

“Isn’t it already?” he laughs. “But I understand. Formalities. Colleen, say hello to your goombah.”

There’s some rustling on the other end of the call. Then, Hazel’s voice, steady and confident: “Carlo, don’t do anything he says—”

“That’s enough of that,” Fergal says. “You see, Carlo? She’s safe and sound. I can’t promise that she’ll stay that way, though. I think you get my meaning.”

“She’s your daughter,” I tell him. “Your own fucking daughter and you tried to kill her. You sent armed thugs after her. And now—Jesus, Fergal, even for a man like you, this is messed up. All we have in this life is our loyalty to family. Without it, we’re no better than junkies holding up the corner store.”

“I have never claimed to be anything but a criminal. Now, if you’re done with the poetry, I think we’ve got business to discuss.”