Page 13 of Capo

He looks skeptical, and I don’t like it at all. What the fuck am I doing? I jump out of the car, give him one last glance, then I close the door and put my palm on the roof as the car immediately starts rolling. With a heavily pounding heart, I turn toward the gate and the serious men who stand there. They have lined up, and somehow they look taller and wider than they did a few seconds ago. A gun, catching a ray of sun, glints in the belt under a suit jacket, and almost changes my mind. My legs want to take a sharp turn to the left, to where the taxi waits. No! I need to settle this. I lick my swollen lips. My face is still strained and tender. My arm doesn’t really hurt anymore, safe in its cast, but my head aches and every breath I take is a bitch on my broken ribs. I ran once. I made myself a new life. My friend fled for her life. This is for Kerry as much as for myself.

Fuck Luciano Salvatore!

My legs feel as if they’re filled with lead as I walk up to the one who looks like he’s in charge. “I need to speak to Salvatore.” Every cell in my body tells me to run but my mind forces me to stay put. I think of Kerry as I left her at my cousin’s house, her posture stiff and unnaturally straight. I wonder if that’s how I come off too.

They look at each other and two of them bark out a laugh. One of them doesn’t move a muscle, he just keeps staring in a very discouraging way.

“Now why would we let you do that?”

I’m at a loss for words. “Please.”

The man in the middle, the one who spoke, pulls out a gun and gestures with it toward the road. “Trot along, little girl.”

I freeze up. The blue-black metal of the handgun glints. It’s not aimed at me, but a slew of memories assault me from the sight. My parents shot to death in their car. One of my brothers assembling weapons as I walked in on him a few years later. I knew then it was all going to shit. Next time I saw him, my worst fears had come true as he had been thrown in county jail. My aunt and uncle weren’t having it anymore. My other brother had already moved out. I was nineteen and I fled from everything. I’m not fucking doing it again.

“I know where Kerry Jackson is!”

Well, I don’t, but I’ll sort that later.

“Is that supposed to mean anything? Get lost, lady.”

I gape as my cheeks heat up. I don’t know why I thought that was important. Maybe because I was beaten black and blue because of it?

“Well, check with your boss,” I spit.

I lose the staring contest as my eyes flicker between them. Of course, I do. I’m fucking scared out of my mind. But I’m pissed and I won’t budge. I raise an eyebrow, as does he, then he puts his hand to his collar and turns away. I hear him speak, but I can’t make out the words. The other two stand with their arms crossed over their broad chests as they look me over, their lips curled in distaste. I’m suddenly uncomfortably self-conscious about the absolute mess I am. My insides squirm, but I force myself to stay still.

I jerk when the gate starts moving and the man who spoke comes up to me, grabbing my good arm. I wince. ‘Good’ is relative. It’s also been beaten and he’s squeezing my bruises.

“Ow.”

“Move,” he growls.

I stumble next to him as he strides up the driveway, toward a beautiful white mansion. To the far right stand several exclusive cars, BMW, Mercedes, Tesla. The lawn is perfectly trimmed and emerald green, the bushes cut in shapes of balls, and cylinders. Birds sing and it all seems both very unthreatening and completely lethal at the same time.

He can’t be all bad, can he? He’s a father. There’s got to be a streak of humanity in him.

A rough man in the dark in my apartment. Merciless beating. My friend scared witless. No. He has no redeeming qualities. As we walk up a long set of granite stairs the loathing in me grows. I’m gonna fucking tell him what he needs to hear.

When the door opens I jerk back, instinct telling me to run, but the fingers around my arm hold it in a vice grip, and all I do is hurt myself. The man who has escorted me pushes me toward a blond giant with a crooked nose. He looks me over, stone-faced, but I still see a hint of curiosity when he takes in my swollen face and the cast.

“I’ll take it from here,” he murmurs, a slight, undefinable accent to his voice. “Come.”

My legs shake as I walk toward him, across the threshold. My stomach is in knots and I fight to keep my breathing under control. I keep the vision of Kerry before me, broken beyond recognition, heart, body, and soul. My own pain is still vividly present with every breath I take.

I have to do this.

The hallway is stunningly beautiful, but I only register it in the periphery of my mind. I have tunnel vision as my gaze closes in on an oak door on the far right, toward which we’re clearly heading.

I jump as the man next to me knocks on the door, and then opens it. I see a bit of hardwood floor and an oriental carpet, then I’m pushed inside and the door closes behind us. He’s standing too close behind me and I stumble forward a step, my back crawling from his presence.

In the middle of the room stands a giant desk, an old-fashioned, dark wooden desk. On it an ashtray, a laptop and a few sheets of documents. Next to it stands a man, tall, dark hair, impeccably dressed in a gray suit. Luciano Salvatore. He doesn’t move as he looks me over from head to toe, and then back up to my face before he slowly removes his suit jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair. He takes his time, and it seems as if the clocks have stopped. I stare, transfixed, as he rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, showing off well defined muscles beneath the rich dark hair on his forearms.

Then he walks toward me. I glance over my shoulder, at the man behind me. It’s not a comforting sight. His light gray eyes meet mine, his face expressionless. I look back at the man I’m here to see, my heart slamming so hard in my chest that I can barely breathe.

His eyes are slightly hooded and pitch black, his Roman nose and his sharp jawline make his face both rough and awe-inducingly attractive. There are vertical lines on his forehead and frown lines between his thick dark eyebrows. He has some years on him, looks to be in his forties.

“I was told you wanted to speak to me, Miss—?”

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