Page 19 of The Devil's Den

“I’ll speak to her however I want.” His tone’s ice cold as he throws Matteo onto the mattress, getting in her face. “What are you gonna do about it? Spread your legs?” He snickers.

I wander my gaze from him to her, and she’s glaring just as hard at him.

“Yeah,” he says on a laugh. “That’s what I thought.” He turns, locking Matteo up, the chain clinking as he takes out the key, then roughly brushes past her, going up the stairs.

“Are you okay?” I ask her once the door closes.

“Yeah.” She forces a smile, but in her eyes, there are tears. “His poor face.” She clears her throat, her attention on Matteo. “His cheeks are so raw. I have to clean him up.”

When I finally look at Matteo… “Oh God.” My chin quivers. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“We’re going to do everything we can to make sure he is.” She tucks me to her side with a squeeze. “Now, run upstairs and get me two towels from the closet and a big bowl from the kitchen with some lukewarm water in it.”

“Yeah, I’m on it.” I nod, then I’m gone in a flash.

* * *

Together, we cleaned the cuts on his face. He finally woke up about an hour after we finished. He knew where he was and who we were, which was a good thing according to Ms. Greco. He even drank water but refused to eat anything.

I wouldn’t be hungry either if someone just beat me up. If I could, I would hurt those men just as badly as they hurt him. How could they do that? What’s wrong with these people? It’s like my dad made them all crazy. Like him.

In the past two years, Matteo and I have gotten very close. We’re literally inseparable, and it’s not because he has nowhere else to go. We laugh. We read books to each other. We dream about the world outside of ours, wondering what it feels like to be in it, to be one of those people, the lucky ones. I’d do anything for him, and I know he’d do anything for me.

I lie beside him, refusing to leave him alone, in case he needs something. We hold hands as we face one another, one of his eyes swollen almost shut.

“I’m so sorry, Matteo.” Tears bathe my lower lashes. When he doesn’t say anything, I continue, “If I knew how to get you out of here, you know I would. I’m sorry my dad and my uncles are doing this to you.” I lower my head, too ashamed to face him.

“It’s not your fault,” he finally whispers, squeezing my hand once. “None of it has ever been your fault.”

“They’re my family.” I snivel with a gasping breath.

“But you’re not them. You’re you, and you’ve always been a good friend.”

But I’m not, I want to argue. I haven’t called the police for starters. Not that I could. We have no phones in the house, and Ms. Greco is too afraid of Dad to ever do it herself. What if calling the cops causes more awful things to happen to him? To Ms. Greco? I don’t know what to do.

He inhales slowly. “Could you stay a little longer?” He closes his eyes. “It’ll help me sleep.”

“Anything you need.”

I glide my hand up and down his arm, the way Ms. Greco does when I have a rough time going to bed. When his chest falls peacefully with his breathing, I stare at him one last time before I shut my eyes, and hope the nightmares stay far away—from the both of us.

CHAPTERSEVEN

AIDA AGE 13

That boyI met so long ago is gone. He’s older than he seems. Colder. Harsher. It’s as though my father sucked out all the joy he once possessed.

We’re still close. And he’s still here. In the basement. Chained. Locked away from the world.

We still spend every single day together. My father somehow lets me. I don’t question it. I take it as a gift, one of the few he’s given me. Except it’s not really a gift, now, is it?

It’s suffering and pain wrapped in a pretty bow. Because in my gaining a friend, he’s suffered. Horribly.

They’ve beaten him countless times, so badly once, the doctor thought his ribs were broken. Those are the only times they’ve allowed him to rest.

The other days, they take him, and there’s blood when he returns. On his face. His hands. Sometimes even his clothes. Sometimes there’s a little, and other times there’s so much. He won’t talk about it, the stuff they make him do. But I don’t have to hear it to know it’s bad.

Yet, no matter what they do to him, I can still see shreds of that little boy I care so much about. They haven’t managed to rip him away from me completely. I don’t think they can, though they try with all their might.

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