But Dante seems to know all about it.
I watch him in the darkness. His sharp cheekbones cast shadows over the lower half of his face.
This man knows things he's not supposed to. Once again, I believe that there's more to Dante Mancini than what meets the eye.
18
DANTE
Enzo and I stand at the foot of her bed as she sleeps.
"Are you sure you don't want to use any medication?" he asks. "It'll make the whole process smoother."
"No drugs."
The girl has been abused enough in her lifetime. I won't add to that by giving her drugs just to make her more cooperative during the interrogation.
"She might start to panic.”
"She's strong," I say. "She'll be able to handle it."
"Alright, I’ll be outside if you need me," he says, walking out of the bedroom.
I sit on a chair at the foot of the bed. I want to let the girl rest, but this needs to be done. Every second matters here.
"Sarah, wake up," I say out loud.
Grace's friend startles awake, her eyes widening when she sees me in the middle of the room. She sits up and presses her back against the headboard. I recognize it for what it is—a defensive pose.
I speak up before she can jump to any conclusions. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I came here to talk about something important. I have a few questions I need to ask you, if that's okay with you."
"Right now?" she croaks, glancing at the window and then back at me. It's still dark outside.
"It'll just take a few minutes."
She crosses her arms in front of her chest, assessing me.
"You want to ask about the organization, don't you?"
"Yes," I say. "I know it's dangerous for you to give me information, but I promise that none of it will be traced back to you."
"I believe you," she says. "But before I tell you anything, I want to know what your intentions are."
"I'm not going to sit here and lie to you that I'm a selfless man who wants to make the world a better place," I say. "But I draw the line at human trafficking."
"Why do I get the feeling that it's more than that?" she says, watching me. "It's personal for you, isn't it?"
I remain quiet. There's a dull ache in my chest now, where my unspoken truth resides.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything," I say, pressing Record on my phone.
"It's not something I can talk about without breaking down," she whispers. "Can you give me something to take the edge off?"
"Yes, of course," I say. "What's your poison?"
I expect her to ask for alcohol, but instead, she says, "Some chocolate would be great."
