Page 21 of The Devil's Den

“Shh. Your father will hear you,” she whispers, looking around before dropping beside me. “You think I don’t want to? You think seeing that poor boy down there year after year doesn’t kill me every time I walk into this house?”

“Then why?” I demand. “Why haven’t you done something?”

“Because…” She shuts her eyes. “You’re still a baby. I shouldn’t even say a thing.”

“I’m thirteen. I’m not a child. I know my father isn’t good. But I want to know why you don’t help. Because you, Ms. Greco, you’re good.” My brows dip as our gazes align.

She lets out a defeated breath, wandering straight ahead as she starts. “I have a sister. She’s about ten years younger, and when she was really little, my parents borrowed a lot of money from your uncle Faro to get her a kidney. They couldn’t pay him back. Not all of it. So Faro killed my father, and as a way to earn what we owe, he’s enslaved me to work for his family in whatever way they need. Over the years, I have been through hell, living through the most horrific things.” She tilts her head with a glance at me. “Being here with you is the best job they’ve given me so far. If I do anything, like report this, they’ll kill my sister and my mom.” She tugs my hand over her lap and squeezes, her brows tugging tightly. “I’m sorry, Aida. I’d help if it were just my life on the line, but—”

“I get it now.” I nod, my voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I doubted you.” The tears trace down my cheeks.

“You never have anything to be sorry about.” She looks tenderly at me. “You’re nothing like him and thank goodness for that.”

* * *

MATTEO AGE 13

“Again!” Stan shouts over my shoulder as I pummel fist after fist at the man lying under me, his nose cracked, his eye swollen, but I don’t stop. I don’t know how to. It’s what I’ve done these past years. What they’ve wanted me to do.

“Harder! Show me what you’re worth!”

I roar, as another punch lands over the man’s cheek, picturing Aida being hurt, them doing stuff to her.

I’ll never let them hurt you. Never, I growl to myself, as I almost kill the man who’s no longer defending himself. Not that he had much left in him after they brought him here. I’ve never killed a person yet, but I’ve done other things.

Thanks to Stan and Drew, I’ve not only killed animals, but I learned how to fight. To hurt people well enough to make them cooperate, which means do whatever the Bianchi assholes want.

After the bunny they had me murder, they moved me to cats and dogs. Now, I hurt people. But I’d do anything for her. Anything at all. Even kill.

And they all know it.

“Whoa, kid.” Stan wraps an arm around my chest from behind, pulling me back. “Didn’t say to ax him yet. You can relax now.”

“Is he dead?” I breathe heavy, my chest burning as I try to calm my inhales.

The man groans, as though answering my question. I didn’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I don’t have a choice.

Stan rises over the man. “You better have that money you owe us or else we’re coming after your kid next. And my friend right here”—he pats my head even though I’m almost as tall as him—“will do far worse to your boy than he did to you.”

The guy cries as two others drag him away.

“You ready for your next job?” Stan asks.

Sure, if that involves breaking your nose.

“Yeah.” My reply is calm.

“Bring him out,” he tells someone else. A man appears, yanked by his shirt. His sneakers drag across the floor as he mutters with a sob, his mouth covered with black tape, his hands tied up behind him. He fights the hand that holds him, his eyes bulging once he’s next to us.

He’s probably the same age as the other guy I just hurt. They’re all usually older. My knuckles throb. I don’t think I can handle giving another beating, but I’d never complain. Not if they’ll hurt Aida as punishment.

“The big boss is here for this,” Stan warns. “So you make us proud.” That’s when more footsteps pummel, until they get nearer, until their faces are clear as day. Faro and Agnelo stand beside each other, staring into me with an empty look in their eyes.

The man groans and fights as he’s taken to a chair and pushed on top of it. But as I come at him, readying a fist, Agnelo laughs.

“No, kid. This time”—he reaches into his coat pocket and whips out a pistol—“you’re going to blow his fucking brains out.”

I jerk back, my lungs rattling with heavy breathing, my stomach winding with knots. “I can’t do that.” I keep retreating, step after step, until someone grabs me from the back and holds me down.

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