“There has to be another option,” I said finally. “Something we haven’t thought of. Maybe if I talked to them, explained?—”
“You think I haven’t tried?” Dad’s voice cracked. “You think I haven’t begged? These aren’t reasonable men, Nick. They’re criminals. They don’t care about our family history or our legacy. All they care about is what we owe them and how they can use us.”
“Then we run. Pack up tonight and?—”
“And they’d find us.” He met my eyes, and I saw real fear there for the first time in my life. “And it wouldn’t just be the ranch we’d lose. Mr. Valenti made that very clear.”
The implication settled over me like a heavy blanket. They’d hurt us. Probably kill us. That’s what these types of people did, wasn’t it? I’d seen enough movies, heard enough stories.
“So what?” I spat. “We just hand Heather over like she’s livestock?”
“No.” His voice turned hard. “We meet with this Dante Valenti tomorrow. We hear what he has to say. And we figure out if there’s any way to make this bearable for your sister. Maybe he’s... maybe he’s not as bad as we think.”
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. A mobster with a heart of gold. Right.
“And if he is as bad as we think?”
Dad was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “Then your sister gets to choose. Marry or leave. It’s up to her.”
But even as he said it, I knew what her choice would be. She’d protect the family. She always had.
For the first time in my life, I felt completely useless. Tomorrow was going to happen whether I wanted it to or not. Tomorrow our family would join the mob. Tomorrow, all our family debts came due at a terrible price.
God help us.
Chapter 2
Dante
The room was small, with a single bulb lamp hanging from the ceiling. Under its beam was a man, beaten and bloody, tied to a chair with a balled-up handkerchief stuffed in his mouth. He looked up as I entered, flanked by two other men. His eyes went wide with fear. He knew seeing a Valenti in person meant he’d fucked up big time.
“Mr. Benson,” I said, putting on a warm smile. “It’s good to see you again.”
Mr. Benson looked anything but happy to see me.
I pulled up a chair from the corner and dragged it across the concrete floor, letting the legs scrape loud enough to make him flinch. The sound echoed in the small space. I positioned it backwards in front of him and straddled it, resting my arms across the back.
“You can take that out,” I said to Marco, one of my men. He stepped forward and yanked the handkerchief from Benson’s mouth. The man gasped, spitting blood onto the floor between us.
“Mr. Valenti, I can explain?—”
“I’m sure you can.” I kept my voice pleasant and conversational. I learned a long time ago that you didn’t need toyell to make a point. In fact, the quieter you were, the more they feared what was coming. “But before you do, let me tell you what I already know. Three days ago, you met with Detective Caruso at that diner on Mulberry Street. The one with the good cannoli. You had coffee. He had a Danish. You talked for forty-seven minutes.”
The color drained from what was left of Benson’s face.
“Now, what I don’t know yet,” I continued, leaning forward slightly, “is what exactly you told him. So why don’t you help me fill in those blanks?”
“Nothing,” he stammered. “I swear to God, Mr. Valenti, I didn’t tell him nothing. He was fishing, that’s all. I gave him nothing.”
I sighed, disappointed. “Mr. Benson. Do I look stupid to you?”
“No, sir, I?—”
“Because when you lie to me, it suggests you think I’m stupid. That I don’t have eyes everywhere. That I don’t know exactly what you’ve been doing.” I stood up, the chair clattering backward. “And that offends me.”
I nodded to Marco. He moved fast, his fist connecting with Benson’s ribs. The crack was audible. Benson’s scream filled the small room.
“Let’s try this again,” I said, picking up the chair and setting it right. I sat back down, casual, as if we were discussing the weather. “What did you tell Detective Caruso?”
