Page 7 of The Devil's Den

“Maybe I should kill your son now. I think that’ll wake you up.” Faro lifts his gun, pointing it at me. My whole body shakes as the weapon nears my forehead.

Daddy, you have to open your eyes! Please!

But with the tape around my mouth all he’d hear is mumbling.

I don’t want to die. I try to scream. But it’s no use. He can’t hear me.

“Mmm,” he suddenly groans, his eyelids fluttering, tape around his mouth too, then his eyes jump to me and to the men.

I scream, rocking on my knees, trying to get closer to him, but I can’t. My legs hurt too much.

“Ahh, he’s risen.” Faro rips the tape off his mouth. “Finally, I’ll get to hear you beg for your son’s life before I kill you both.” Abruptly, Faro whips his head in another direction. “You hear something?” he asks his friends.

“It’s that damn pipe, I’m tellin’ you,” another guy says. “Fuckin’ annoyin’.”

The flashlight jumps back to our faces, and I close my eyes to stop it from hurting.

“It’s okay, Matteo. Daddy’s here.” His voice trembles, and when I’m able to peer at him, his tears are falling fast.

“Daddy won’t be able to do shit for you, kid,” Faro says with a scary laugh.

I want to go home. Please.

I fall facedown on the floor, crying for someone to help us, but no one comes. No one even knows we’re here.

“Please, Faro. Please don’t hurt the boy. He did nothing wrong,” my father wails. “You can do what you want to me but leave him out of it. He’s innocent.”

Faro chuckles like one of those villains in the comics I read. “The mistakes of the father always come back on the son, Francesco. You should know that. Say goodbye to your son before it’s too late.”

Goodbye? Where am I going? I breathe so hard, my chest hurts, my stomach queasy, prickles all over my arms.

“N-no. No. Please no,” Dad screams, moving his legs to get close to me, leaning over my shoulder, both of us crying.

“It’s okay, Matteo. It’s okay. Shh.” But the more I look at Dad, the more I cry, the more I want to hug him. To let him kiss me on the forehead like he does.

“Want me to do it?” another man asks.

But I ignore them as my dad whispers with a cry, “I love you for always.” He fights so hard to smile, to finish saying what he tells me and my brothers every night before we go to bed.

And forever after that.I say it for him, even though he can’t hear it, even as the man raises a gun, pointing it at me.

“Don’t look, okay, son?” Dad tells me. “Ju-just look at me and close your eyes.” His voice breaks with a sob.

“I love you, my boy. You hear me? Papa’s sorry. I love—”

Pop.

CHAPTERTHREE

MATTEO

TWO WEEKS LATER

I holdon to the pillow, my fingers clutching tight, trying to close my eyes and hide away, but I can’t. I’m stuck on this stupid mattress, on this stupid floor, in the basement. And it’s not even comfortable.

After my stomach started to feel better a few days ago, Agnelo brought me to the basement. He said I wasn’t allowed to sleep on a bed upstairs. The trash sleeps on the floor, he told me.

A guy with glasses has been checking on me. He told me he was a doctor and that I got very lucky. If this is what they call luck, then I don’t want it.

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