“Benny!” I scream. My husband shouts something and explodes into a full sprint.
The man behind me chuckles. “He’ll never make it in time.”
I wince at his fingernails digging deeper into my scalp. My feet scramble to keep up with his pace as he drags me down a windowless hall across the living room.
“Let me go!” I yell, my stomach twisting into knots from fear and rage. Why motherfuckers are insistent on putting hands on me today is beyond my comprehension.
“Stop fighting,” he growls, shaking his fist in my hair.
“The house is surrounded. My people will find us.”
“We’re not leaving yet.” His fingers fly across a keypad to open a metal door that shuts behind us.
Dim lights under wooden steps come to life, leading to a wide bookcase. The man reaches around me to pull a red book. It clicks, and he pushes it open to reveal a concrete room.
The older man who had the cleaver is inside, tied to a wooden chair. Blood drips from a gash on the side of his bald head down his linen shirt. He squints, the strips of his dark brows narrowing in the low light.
“Bianca?” he rasps.
How does he know my name?
“Say hi to your grandfather.” Rough concrete digs into my hands and knees from the force of my kidnapper’s hard shove.
Dickhead.
“I’m adopted.” I cough, trying to catch my breath from being ragdolled and the news that an Italian man is my grandfather. I crawl away from the approaching footsteps and get a good look at the guy who took me.
Gray eyes.
Cleft chin.
American Psychohair.
“I remember you from Eden,” I whisper.
His thin lips press into a tight smile. “You look like her,” he says, eyes roving my face.
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
I rear back. My throat closes around a lump, tightening at the sting of tears. “H-how did you know my mother?”
He grins. “I killed her.”
The bound man erupts into screams that turn to wails. Blood rushes in my ears. My heart lodges in my ribs, shackling my breath.
Did I fall asleep with the TV on again? This has to be a nightmare. How did I go from being kidnapped—in mafia mess that never directly involved me—to an impromptu family reunion in a safe room? Henry Louis Gates Jr. better march his ass in here. I don’t want to believe any of it!
My head shakes slowly from the haze of confusion and questions pounding into my temples. My uncle killed my mother. Did Mama Vee know? Vince?
I tear my eyes from the man proudly declaring he’d taken the life of the woman who gave me mine to my grandfather. He’s sobbing, face red, veins streaking across his throat.
I don’t understand any of this.
“Why, Michele?” My grandfather’s voice cracks. “Chiara posed no threat to the organization. She was never involved and never would be.”
“Her existence threatened my position, Zio Elio,” Michele sneers.
