I don’t know what he’s talking about, but Oria’s story wasn’t made up. It’s all so horrible I have to sit.
“Those cells downstairs.” I slide my hands between my knees, trying to look as harmless and stupid as he expects. “Why were they built? There are more than you’d ever need for the odd traitor.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He rubs his face so hard that when he lowers his hands, his eyes are red. “I don’t need this shit with Sergio, or Lucari, or you.”
One of those problems is mine too.
“Sometimes, Dario would talk about his day.” I put my hands on the arms of the chair. “This guy or that guy annoyed him. Or once he asked me to rub a sore shoulder. When I asked him why he was so sore on one side, he said something like, ‘If you want to go through a door, you have to open it yourself.’ So, I know. I’ve heard it all before.” I push up and stand. “Being in charge is hard. I don’t know why everyone—Dario, you, Sergio—want it so bad you’ll kill each other for it.”
I turn to leave, figuring this opportunity has passed and I’ll have to find another to prod my brother into seeing his prisoner.
“He told you things,” Massimo says as I reach for the doorknob. I let my hand drop. “About what he does.”
“Sometimes.” I turn and fold my hands in front of me, staying harmless. “In the right moments. He’d be vague about it.”
“You’re right about one thing. If Sergio brings those women home, I’m as good as dead. He’ll be sitting in this chair.”
“If you say so.”
“I have to be the one to find them.”
“He’ll never tell you where they are, Massimo.”
“But he may tell you.”
My head is already bowed, so the smile I’m fighting is already hidden from him.
Men sometimes need to be followed to their own minds. And sometimes dragging you speeds the journey.
For the first time in my life, I’m going to obey Grandma not because I have to but because she’s right.
“I’m supposed to pretend to hate him. I’ll be on the other side of the glass. Those aren’t the right conditions to soften him up.”
“If you think I’m letting you on the other side of that glass…” With effort, he slides his leg off the chair. “You’re nuts. I already don’t like the influence he has on you.” He struggles to stand. He’s hiding incredible pain. I rush over to help him.
“Daddy’s cane is at the apartment if you want me to bring it by.”
“Sure. And you’re right. It’s a bad idea, you going down there.” Once he’s sitting straight, he knocks on the desk and shouts in the direction of the door. “Ray! Get in here!”
Did I push too far? Asking to stay on my side isn’t going to help. Asking for anything won’t get me in to see Dario. But every second of waiting for my next opportunity to ask, or sneak, or pry up the floorboards until I find him is going to hurt.
Ray bursts in the door with his sunny smile, ready to do man’s work.
The other two men follow, and without another word, I am dismissed.
I have to trust the seed I’ve planted.
CHAPTER 10
DARIO
I can do one hundred pushups, but on my third crunch, the stitches in my side threaten to open. Out of boredom, I put the bed on its side and grip the two top legs to do pullups. The wooden frame creaks every time. Through it all, my mind remains as clear as it’s been since Sarah wiped away the cobwebs by putting her hands on the glass.
She’s coming back. I don’t know when, because I can’t feel the passage of time, but she’s coming. Next time she’s here, we have to prove I despise her and that she hates and fears me.
The trap at the bottom of the door opens and my dirty tray is whisked away.
“Thank you,” I call to the person—likely a woman—responsible for keeping me alive.
A new tray comes under the door. My shirt comes right after. It’s been laundered and repaired. This dump is half a step better than Guantanamo Bay.
I sniff the lentils for anything off. There’s nothing rank or chemical—same as always. I don’t have any utensils, so I stir with my finger. A hard right angle stabs through the surface, red liquid sliding down to reveal shining silver metal. I pick it out then drop it back into the bowl, where it floats like a steel life raft in a lake of raw sewage.
A razor blade.
Like a booby-trapped Halloween apple, there’s a straight edge razor in my soup. I stare at it.
Is someone trying to cut my mouth open just for kicks?
No. The woman who made these lentils wouldn’t have the nerve to hurt me on her own when she’d invariably be caught. Only one woman in this entire fuckshow would give me a weapon like this and trust me to use it wisely.
“I will, prima,” I say under my breath. “I promise.”
Gulping down the lentils, I snap the shirt open. Same one, but it’s now a warrior returning home scarred, but stronger. There’s something hard inside the top hem of the pocket. Maybe binding or reinforcement.
I pinch down to feel the shape of it.
It’s a wire, and a firm one.
Sarah left this for me.
The door doesn’t have a keyhole. I can’t pick it, but she’s speaking to me. She’s going to keep sending things for me. One will work.
I don’t pray, but I close my eyes and thank whatever can hear my thoughts. The goddess of planning, forethought, and strategy. The ghost of whoever was here last. My own deepest self. I thank all of them for Sarah, who, for reasons I cannot quite grasp, loves me.
To a man with nothing, a paperclip and a razor seems like more than enough, until I see the puckers in the pocket hem.
Could there be more?
Hiding what I’m doing from the camera above, I slice the stitches on the top of the pocket and open up the seam. There, I find a row of six runes stitched in the color of dried blood.
I don’t know what they mean.
There’s a knot between the fourth and fifth symbol—like a separator, but what does it separate?
Only Sarah can tell me what it means. I’m not in a position to demand to see her.
How much time passes between the time I fold the pocket back together and Massimo’s visit?
Not much. Enough time for the trap door to open for the empty bowl, but not enough for another delivery. Enough time to do pushups until my arms ache, but not enough to get stronger.
There’s action on the other side of the metal door. Clacking and whooshing. The beep of the biometric locks. I’ve figured out that there’s a hall between two doors, so if I attack whoever comes in, I’ll still have at least one more locked door to get through.
The steps aren’t feminine. It’s not the meal tray, and the irregular footsteps and scrapes are too few to be the team that tries to break me. There’s one foot, then a tap.
For a split second, I fear I didn’t finish off Peter Colonia. He’s here, on a cane and a club foot.
No. Sarah’s wearing black for him. He’s dead.
I crouch at the end of the bed in case I need to launch, but I have no concrete plan to disable my visitor. Not this time.