“I was a wreck after the accident that killed her,” he finally admits.“I began drinking and gambling way too hard.”
A memory surfaces, unbidden.A couple of months after the funeral, I was padding barefoot through the darkened hallways of our estate because I heard a noise.I found my father passed out on the couch of his study, a half-empty bottle of bourbon clutched to his chest like a teddy bear.The stench of alcohol was so thick it made my eyes water.I tried to wake him, but he mumbled something unintelligible and turned away.
I went back to bed that night.I never told anyone what I saw.
“Someone approached me with a business proposal,” Giovanni continues.His voice takes on a distant quality, like he’s reciting facts rather than confessing sins.“They needed to use one of my warehouses for a couple of nights.Two-hundred percent return on investment over the weekend.Low-risk, minimal effort on my part.”
My jaw tightens.I already know where this story is going.
“More than enough profit to pay off the Camorra thugs I’d lost a million dollars to in a poker game the week before.”He shrugs, as if gambling away a fortune and then paying it back with blood money is a reasonable course of action.“A no-brainer.Before I knew it, I was in too deep.”
For a fraction of a second, I almost feel sorry for him.The grieving widower, drowning in bourbon and bad decisions, making one terrible choice that spiraled into an endless pit of suffering.
Then I remember the manifest on my laptop.Names and faces etched into my memory.The detailed spreadsheets tracking human beings as inventory.
“Very touching,” I say, letting the acid drip from my words.“Still, you trade in people.You bought and sold a kid close to our family.”Giovanni’s brows draw together, but he doesn’t reply.I add, “Seriously?You don’t remember Lucia Rossi?”
Lucia.Twelve years old when she was trafficked.Marco Rossi’s daughter.The girl who asked me about cybersecurity at Christmas dinner because she wanted to study computer science.The girl who played with Isabella when they were children.
My blood turns to ice.
“I remember her too well,” I whisper, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
Father waves a hand, dismissing my horror like it’s an inconvenience.“I didn’t buy Lucia.Her father owed his soul to Vdovotvorets.He gave her to the Widowmaker as a down payment.”
The Widowmaker.The shadowy figure Shelby mentioned during our investigation.The man powerful enough to terrify everyone who crosses his path.
“She was the right age for Vdovotvorets,” my father adds, as if this explains everything.
Bile rises in my throat.The right age.As if there’s an appropriate age for a child to be given to a monster as payment for her father’s debts.
“Please tell me you don’t touch the kids.”The words scrape past my lips like I’m chewing on glass.I need to know.Even now, even chained to a bed in his dungeon, I need to know if my father is capable of that particular depravity.
“Fuck, no.”Giovanni’s denial is immediate, vehement.“Never the kids, not even the adult women.These are assets.I like to keep my head clear when doing business.”
Assets.Business transactions.As if that somehow makes it better.As if keeping his hands clean while profiting from the suffering of others absolves him of guilt.I believe with all my heart that there’s a special place in hell for these pedophiles.But I’d bet my soul that my father will be on sentinel duty at their gate.
The door opens again, and Cesare Dellamare steps into the room.My father’s entire demeanor shifts.His spine straightens, shoulders squaring, eyes going cold and calculating.The grief-stricken widower disappears, replaced by the crime boss who has survived decades in a world that eats weakness for breakfast.
Cesare’s crooked nose, a memento from my husband, makes him look more feral.His soulless gaze rakes over my body, lingering on my breasts, on the bruises on my arms.I would certainly vomit right now if my stomach were holding anything.
“Got it?”Giovanni asks, his voice clipped.
Instead of answering, Cesare walks to my mattress and drops a tablet on the thin fabric in front of me.
The screen glows to life.
And my heart shatters into a million pieces.
The video is grainy, low-res, captured from above by a drone.I recognize the rooftop terrace of Shelby’s penthouse immediately.The mirrored windows reflect the skyline.He’s standing in the same spot where he pressed me against the glass and made me see stars.
Except in this video, it's not me pressed against him on the terrace.It's another woman.
26
Serena
Astunning blonde writhes against those same windows, her back arched in pleasure as Shelby drives into her.I squint and try to identify her.The angle is unmistakable.The position is identical to the one he used with me.It’s clearly his MO.
