With that, she returned the hatch to its upright position, closing the window, and the latch sent a click echoing through my cement prison. I listened for her footsteps to retreat, but I didn’t hear anything. A master of stealth shouldn’t surprise me from the smallest, sneakiest Cavetti, but it was rare someone could make no noise while moving quickly — she seemed to have it down pat.
Eventually, I heard the heavy basement door open and close, and I knew that my siblings and I were isolated in the prison of the Cavettis basement once again.
3
Natalia
Gianni was dead.
I had to keep replaying the words in my mind, simply to remind myself. It was strange. I’d never really been close to my brother, in fact, we’d hardly talked about anything unrelated to our family business. I might as well have been a piece of furniture to him. Neither of us had grown up together, so it was just Savio and I that really knew each other. Our older brothers were always leaving us out and forgetting that we existed.
Still, it was the devastation he left in his wake that caused me to worry.
My father was mourning the loss of his son, and in doing so, had caused the downfall of the Bonifacio family. The parents were dead, and the rest of them were trapped in the dungeon below, except for Lucia, who was sequestered in a room upstairs. I didn’t need to hear the screaming to know that Antonio and Giorgio were being tortured. I was worried about the sisters, and how the grunts and my brothers would treat them.
It was cruelty that seemed unnecessary.
They’d already lost everything, but my father wanted to see them crumble all the more. It made my stomach churn. I couldn’t bear the thought of them being hurt. I imagined myself in their positions. Still, I knew better than to go against my father. Releasing one of them would mean death for me, and I knew my father would find me, even if I did manage to escape for a little while. He would hunt us down like dogs until he put us down.
They’d only been with us a few days when I figured there was something I could still do. The look on Giorgio’s face when his parents had been shot in the kitchen had burned itself in my mind. Even as my father’s goons had taken him away, beating him into submission. The rage and pain in his eyes had shook me to my core. There wasn’t much I could do to relieve his, or any of his siblings, pain. I wished I could.
But it was out of my control.
There were small things I could do, though. Even then, as I made my way down the winding stairs, I could feel my heart racing in my chest. The goons were outside, making sure that the property was protected. There were cameras all around the grounds, and the goons often worked from certain rooms of the mansion, making sure that everything was right. It was part of the reason we always tiptoed around. My father’s men had no loyalty to us. Hell, I couldn’t count how many times their eyes had wandered on me, even when I was underage. The only reason they hadn’t done anything was because of the paycheck and power my father offered them. I always felt that loyalty that was bought was never true loyalty.
The Bonifacio’s paid goons had proved that the night that the head of the Bonifacio family was killed. They hadn’t second-guessed switching sides. They were simply happy to be on the winning side again, safe in their own little fucked up cocoon of criminal activity that the police turned a blind eye to. Everyone’s loyalty could be purchased for the right price.
The mansion was oddly silent, and moonlight streamed in from the front windows as I made my way towards the kitchen. I kept my feet light as I neared the fridge. I wasn’t sure if my visits to Giorgio were helping or hurting, but it was worth a try. I wanted to show him I was different, and that he had a friend in the Cavetti family. Was he worth getting into trouble? I didn’t know. I did know that they didn’t deserve what was happening to them, and I was the only one who could help.
I reached into the fridge, making sure I scoured the room. I could remember nights when I would hear creaking outside my bedroom door, fearing that it was my father — the sound of my own footsteps in the kitchen reminded me of those dark nights. I felt a tightness in my chest as I reached for some leftover potatoes and bocconcini. I grabbed whatever I could, including a few bottles of water, and held the cold items to my chest. I swallowed hard as I tiptoed through the kitchen, leaning against the fridge door to close it behind me.
The sound of crickets emanated from the open window nearby, allowing a cool breeze to enter the house. The rustling of leaves caused an almost eerie sound to echo through the quiet mansion. I hated it. Then, of course, there was the plastic, which seemed louder than everything combined. Opening the door was a chore. It was heavier than I’d remembered it being. The steel of the metal doorknob was frigid against my skin as I pulled it open, trying to use my other arm to cradle the food I was bringing with me.
The creaking of the door caused me to stop.
I waited, listening intently for footsteps. I let out a deep breath when I realized no one was coming. I still wasn’t used to heading into the dungeon my father had installed into the house, as though it was normal to have one. I’d rarely seen him bring anyone in to be tortured downstairs. He had other places to do that. It was the first time that he’d brought someone down there to stay, and I had the feeling that he’d been waiting for that very moment. He was glad he’d taken the Bonifacio siblings in — it was as though it was premeditated. I wouldn’t have put it past him.
The air was cooler in the basement, and the stairs creaked beneath my weight. I gripped the food and water to my chest as I peered down the long, eerie hallway. It was thin and cramped. The smell of mold filled the air. There was a sound coming from one end of the hallway, but there was no one there. I passed the doors on my way and realized I could hear someone singing. Goosebumps formed along my skin the moment I heard her voice. It had to be one of the twins singing a melody to herself.
It reminded me of my Nonna.
I bit my lip as I passed, not wanting to stay with that sound for too long. It was nostalgic but in the worst ways. Anything that reminded me of my Nonna only reminded me of the childhood that I’d been snatched away from the moment she’d passed. Savio and I had been thrown into a world of drugs, prostitution, and violence since her passing. It was something she’d protected us from until her dying day.
A shiver ran down my spine at the thought. If only Savio could hear her sing. I was sure he’d be entranced by her voice. I had to keep my visit to Giorgio a secret, or I would have told him to spend some time down there. It would be a treat for him, no doubt. He was old enough to remember everything about our Nonna, whereas I was younger. My memories of her were fading like paper in the sun.
I walked up to his door, which was growing all the more familiar. It wasn’t the first time that I was delivering food to him. I knew that the girls were being taken care of, but Giorgio and his brother were being starved - it was all part of the torture my father had in mind for them. He wanted them to suffer as much as he could.
I waited for a moment with bated breath, peering around one last time. I did the tap along the door to let him know it was me. It was three small raps of my fingers against the door. I did it so low, I was surprised that he ever heard me. I heard him shuffle on the other side of the door, likely moving closer. I didn’t open the door. I didn’t need to. There was a hatch at the bottom, which was used by the grunts to deliver food.
I slid it open and peered inside. The room was dark and smelled similarly to the hallway. The air was constricted, smelling of mold and concrete. He only had a cot to sleep on, designed to be almost less comfortable than the concrete floor and no other proper amenities in his cell. It was a dark square of solitude, meant to slowly drive someone insane. There was a bathroom, which was as glamorous as the room became, with a shower and a toilet in a small room behind the main space. It reminded me more of a closet or a den. I was surprised Giorgio could even stand in it.
“I brought you some food,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Figured you’d need it.”
He lifted his tired eyes to me and nodded, leaning against the wall with a white t-shirt on and a pair of grey jogging pants. His hair looked as though it was painted along his forehead. I could only assume that was from the torture he’d received. I hoped it wasn’t blood.
“Can you shove it through?”
I winced at the sound of his voice. It was heavy, coarse. It reminded me of sandpaper. The pain in that voice made a shiver run down my spine. To think that my father enjoyed breaking someone to that extent. Remembering how he was when I first met him, it was like looking at the shell of the person from that fateful, awful night.
