Page 2 of Dangerous King
For the first time in my life, something inside me rebels. Maybe because Roberto called me a mouse. I'm not a mouse. I keep my head down to keep my family safe, not because Ifearthem. I probably should, but I don't. I've long since accepted that my life, my body, is under their control, but what they won't get is my mind. Never. That belongs to me. I taught myself not tofear, but toaccept. I've accepted that pain or death can come to me at a moment's notice. I might cry, I might scream, but I'll be damned if I show them fear.
They don't think I can do anything. They don't believe I'm capable of doing anything. That's what I want them to think. So why would Roberto bring up my name if he didn't think I was capable of doing something? More alarmingly, has henoticedme?
That's the most dangerous thing of all.
"If he finds out she's here…"
"Hecan't," Giovanni snaps. "If he does, we're dead men walking. That's not a war we win. Not even Don Edoardo would back us up."
"Fuck."
I chance a look around the corner and watch Roberto nervously pacing, running his hand through his hair.
"Somebody set us up. What do we do?"
"We wait for Ringo," Giovanni says grimly. "No one touches her until he gets here. He'll find out from her who put her there. And if itwassomeone in this house…"
He doesn't finish. He doesn't need to. Both men laugh. It's an ugly, nervous laugh. But one that still sends shivers down my spine. The popping sound of a stopper being pulled off one of the carafes filled with expensive whiskey, scotch, or brandy gets nearly drowned out by the ringing in my ears. It's as if I can already hear her screams.
I keep backing up, unsure of what to do or how to get back to my room. The hallway feels longer than it should, each step a gamble. One wrong move, one creak of the floor, and I could be the next mess they decide they need toclean up.
With my back pressed to the wall, I edge toward the kitchen, the familiar path carved into my muscles after years of silent escape routes. But then I pass the open basement door. The cold air rising from it touches my skin like fingers made of ice. The sound of a subdued sob catches my ears.
My breath locks in my throat. I close my eyes.No. No. Madre di Dio. No, please. Not again.I want to keep walking. Ishouldkeep walking.
But my feet won't move. My brain is screaming at me,Don't be stupid. Don't be brave. Brave girls die here.Brave girls disappear.
I think of my father, still alive, the last I heard, still cooperating with Giovanni's demands to keep me safe. I think of my mother's trembling hands when I left with Giovanni's men. If I do anything—anything—to jeopardize my standing here, Giovanni will make sure they both pay. Or my older brothers, or my sister,who is only a year younger than me. I haven't touched any of them in fourteen years. We talk via FaceTime, but that's all the contact we have.
Tentatively, I take another step forward, away from the basement.
But then, there it is… another sob.
It's muffled, barely there, still powerful enough to slice through me like a blade. It reminds me so much of myself. Down there.
That woman… she didn't do anything. I know it deep in my soul. She's not a threat. She's not a spy. She's justtrapped, like I've been all my life.
But she's not you, the logical part of my brain whispers.She's someone else's problem. You don't even know her name.
I lean my head back against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, faster, louder, wild. They're calling Ringo. If I leave that woman down there, she'll die. Not quickly and not painlessly. My stomach turns violently. I remember what it's like to scream with no one listening. To bleed with no one coming. I remember the chair.
Thatfuckingchair.
Giovanni had it custom-built. Reinforced and bolted to the floor. A grotesque hybrid of a dentist's chair and a gynecologist's torture rack. And once—once—he had me tied to it. He videoed me, every heinous thing he and Roberto did to me. They sent it to my family because, they said, my father hadforgottenwho his boss was and what they would do to me. I was fifteen.
Another sob floats up from the darkness below. Softer this time. Ragged and broken. The sound of someone who has lost allhope. The sound stabs my heart and seizes my lungs. It's the sound of a trapped creature, a creature who doesn't want to die.
A sharp, ugly sound crawls up my throat—half sob, half snarl. My hands tremble. The cheese in my palm falls to the ground, but I don't care. I'm already halfway down the stairs before I realize I've moved.
Like in a trance.
I have no plan. I have no idea what I'll do. All I have is the memory of blood under my fingernails and the echo of a girl's sob too close to my own. A faint light glows from a corner of the large open area. It flickers, barely holding on. There are other lights, lights that work properly, but this one has been deliberately tampered with to instill maximum fear.
Down below are more doors—cells—lining the walls. I know them. I know every single one of them. I've spent a few excruciating days locked inside one, when my mother tried to contact the police. At other times, as a reminder of who I really was in this house, Giovanni made me feed some of hisguestsandforced me to clean up after each one.
I don't want to know if the cells are occupied. I don't want toseeif the stains are still there. Or if the people inside are still the same.
My eyes fly to the woman tied to the metal chair in the center. She's not a woman. She's no older than me, maybe nineteen. A girl, really. She's slumped forward. Her wrists are bound behind her, legs strapped wide at the base. Her head lolls slightly to the side.
