The Woman in the Trunk Page 18

  That was a legacy worth leaving behind.

  Lives would be spared.

  Businesses like the bakery would get a reprieve while the family scrambled to figure out the new power dynamic with the boss and the underboss dead.

  Yeah.

  I could take an eternity of punishment in hell with a smile on my face for making this one final decision, doing this one thing that would positively impact so many lives, that would bring the scales of justice back into alignment.

  Killing the Capo dei Capi of New York City.

  With the fucking peanuts in a Snickers bar taken from one of his men.

  It was almost poetic, really.

  I just had to figure out how to get the peanuts into his system.

  And, of course, how to get out of the...

  Wait.

  Nice shoes.

  That was what Brio had said.

  I'd forgotten about them until that moment. Chris had taken them off of me, and I'd never needed them again since most of our trips upstairs were in secret.

  I remember when I had opened the box back in Lorenzo's apartment—something that suddenly felt like a lifetime ago; I swear I'd been a different woman then—that they were a weird choice. With their clunky Mary Jane strap with an oversize buckle. But, then again, I hadn't seen a fashion magazine since before my mother died, so what did I know about fashion trends?

  But, yes, a buckle.

  A real metal buckle.

  Stretching my leg out, I carefully grabbed the edge of one heel with my bare toes, pulling it closed, inspecting the buckle, pulling at it, feeling a sense of satisfaction when the edges of the metal weren't soldered together, just curled against each other, letting the whole thing pull apart to one long metal piece.

  If I had the shoe, I had everything I needed to get the shackle off.

  At least I hoped.

  From there, I just had to find a way out.

  With Brio standing guard, I knew there was no way out there unless he left his station.

  But there was another side of this unfinished half of the basement. And chances were, there had to be a window out.

  Most people couldn't fit through a standard basement window, the type that wasn't an egress. But this was one of the very few times where being small truly came in handy. Maybe I had never been allowed on certain rides at the theme park, but I had always been the one who could crawl in air ducts to save abandoned baby opossums, who could climb inside the storage cabinets every week at work to wipe them out properly.

  I could fit through a basement window.

  If I could get something to climb to get close to it.

  And then I could get inside. Carefully. And slip the peanuts into something I knew Arturo consumed every day, pray he didn't see or taste them. Then get back in the basement, get back in my shackles, make it look like I'd never left. No one could ever suspect me.

  Then, during all the confusion with police and such, I could slip right back out, disappear for a short period of time, then possibly get back to my old life.

  Free.

  For the first time in my entire life.

  Yeah, that seemed worth all the risk.

  Decision made, I hid my makeshift lock picks just in case someone came in, and I set to eating my candy bar, but spitting out the peanuts, piling them on the floor, then crushing them under the heel of my shoe into a fine powder before scooping the dust up and hiding it in the candy bar wrapper, shoving that in the toe of my shoe before tucking them a few feet away again.

  Then I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Arturo came home, went upstairs, the guard ordered the food on his way back outside. Then, finally, the house quieted down.

  On the other side of the door, Brio seemed to be watching something on his phone, some show or movie with a lot of gunshots and yelling.

  Good cover sounds.

  I reached for my shoes with a sort of calmness washing over me. I guess this was what they talked about when people did incredibly dangerous things but for a good cause, how they never even thought twice about it.

  I sure as hell didn't as I freed my wrists, struggling a bit with my leg shackle because I was trying not to make too much noise.

  But it gave, and something inside of me fizzled with actual excitement as I carefully placed it down, reaching for the wrapper full of peanuts, folding it carefully, and tucking it between my lips.

  Standing up made my body hiss in objection after being in a cramped position for so long, but I ignored it as I inched across the cold floor, making my way toward the door to the other side, using my little lock pick set to unlock the door, cringing as it clicked. But on the finished side of the basement, there was some sort of shootout taking place on Brio's phone, covering the noise as I slipped to the other side, carefully closing the door.

  This side of the basement was what I expected. The furnace, hot water heater, piles of discarded cardboard boxes, wilting in the dampness.

  And, yes, a window.

  Without bars.

  Adrenaline coursed through me, making me feel like I was buzzing as I moved around the dark space, looking for something to stand on, nearly laughing in relief when I found a freaking step ladder.

  A step ladder.

  In a room with a window.

  I guess Arturo was so cocky that he never thought anyone could get as far as I did. Maybe he had reason to be that confident, because no one ever had.

  But I guess he hadn't really pissed off a woman enough before.

  I placed the step ladder, then reached up, carefully pulled open the window, looking out into the small backyard for a minute, making sure no guards were around, then clamping my lips harder around the wrapper, and hauling myself out.

  My arms were shaking, my body sweating, excitement, fear, and exhaustion a strange concoction in my system.

  It felt like it took forever.

  But it was all over in maybe two minutes.

  And I was out.

  A part of me wanted to make a run for it.

  But the backyard was fenced on three sides. And the only way out was down the side and past the guards. Even if they weren't the fastest of guys, I was pretty sure they could get me, could haul me back. And then I didn't want to think about how Arturo would make me pay, and ensure that I could never get away again.

  So I crab-walked toward the back window, glancing in, then taking a steadying breath, heading inside.

  Silence.

  Save for Brio's phone that I could hear even a floor above. If he heard movement above him, he would just figure it was Arturo or one of the other guys.

  I had no idea what Arturo consumed aside from the whiskey he drank and the food he had ordered in.

  But there was one thing that was true of the father as well as the son.

  He started the day with coffee.

  Decision made, I went over to the coffee maker, finding that Arturo, again like Lorenzo, made up the pot the night before, so it would brew before he got up.

  The fresh grinds were in the filter.

  Almost giddy with excitement, I shook the peanut dust into the grinds, mixing them up a little in case someone decided to check the machine—which seemed unlikely, but, apparently, plotting murder made one paranoid.

  Finished, I tucked the wrapper back into my mouth, not wanting anyone to see it, to suspect anything since it likely shouldn't have been in the house at all.

  With that, I made my way back outside, realizing as I got to it that getting back in a basement was a lot harder than getting out.

  In the end, I had to lie flat on the ground, slithering backward like the snake I guess I was that night, lowering myself down, legs dangling for a heart-dropping moment before I finally felt the step ladder, then stepped down.

  I took the extra moment to put everything how I found it, sneaking into the other side, locking myself back up, and spending the next hour or so trying to get my buckles back into shape.


  They looked all wrong in the end, but I hoped that these men wouldn't be the sort to look too closely.

  Then I sat and waited.

  Exhaustion disappeared, replaced with something that made me all sorts of wicked.

  Excitement.

  Anticipation.

  Freaking glee.

  I couldn't even consider sleep, my whole body was buzzing, adrenaline bouncing off my nerve endings as I leaned back against the wall, waiting to hear the house wake up.

  On the other side of the door, at some point, Brio turned off his phone, maybe catching a little forbidden sleep like Chris had done the other nights.

  A smile pulled at my lips as I heard the coffee pot beep as it finished brewing. And again when I heard Arturo's feet on the stairs, completely unaware of what was going to happen.

  I should have felt guilt.

  I guess normal people would have.

  But I couldn't help but wonder how many men and women had started their days just like Arturo was starting his, completely oblivious that everything was about to change, losing their lives—or the lives of loved ones—because Arturo willed it.

  He'd caused countless deaths.

  He'd brought unfathomable amounts of terror into the hearts of others.

  I felt no guilt.

  Not even as I heard him take his cup upstairs, likely drinking a big gulp before getting into his shower.

  In his locked bathroom.

  Out of sight of anyone who might be hanging around with an epinephrine pen.

  The excitement dimmed, the glee turned into something like disappointment, like defeat, when minutes passed, when nothing seemed to happen.

  Tears sprang to my eyes, wondering what the hell my choice was now.

  Trying to make a run for it?

  What were my chances?

  How could I start over with no money, no IDs?

  Maybe I could go to the police.

  Tell them my story.

  Point fingers.

  See if they would make me disappear.

  My hands reached up, wiping the tears off my cheeks.

  I don't know how long I sat there like that, biting my lip to keep the sobs in, face getting raw from the saltwater.

  I was barely aware of the footsteps above, casual at first, then running, barely even registered the shouting.

  But then there were frantic feet on the stairs, up, then down again.

  The door flew open, bouncing against the wall.

  And there was Brio.

  His eyes were a little wild, but everything else about him calm, focused, as he made his way over toward me, producing a key, reaching for my ankle.

  "You got to go, doll."

  "Go? Go where? Where are you taking me?"

  "I'm not takin' you anywhere. No one is. You're gonna get up, go up those stairs, and get fucking lost, you hear me? You run. And you don't look back. And you don't say shit about ever being here, you got that?"

  "I, ah, yeah," I agreed, nodding as he fished for a handcuff key, freeing my wrists.

  "Let's do it," he said, pulling me onto my feet, taking off toward the stairs, jogging up them.

  Was I wrong?

  Had it worked?

  Had it just taken them this long to find him?

  Hope swelled under my ribcage as I made my way into the kitchen.

  "Out the back. And disappear, doll. Don't fuckin' look back, yeah?"

  "I, yeah," I agreed, but he was already going through the front hall, jogging up the stairs.

  I knew I had to run.

  I knew I had to disappear.

  But for some reason, I stood there for one extra second, looking around.

  And then I saw it.

  A wallet on the table.

  I rushed at it, grabbing it, stuffing it down the bodice of my dress, and doing exactly what Brio said.

  Getting out of there.

  I didn't run right away.

  I walked casually around the house, then down to the street.

  I was nearly at the corner when I heard the sirens. Another couple seconds before the police cars came barreling down the street.

  Turning, I saw them screech to a halt out front of Arturo's brownstone.

  I took one second to watch, to see the ambulance pull up.

  But I was pretty sure it was too late.

  That was why they had to get rid of me.

  Because the cops were coming.

  And they couldn't have a prisoner in the basement.

  Then I did it.

  I ran.

  And ran.

  And ran.

  I found myself in a crowded park, people glancing at me sideways for wearing a bright red evening dress and no shoes in the early morning, but I ignored them, let them think I had just done a walk of shame, reaching into my bodice to produce the wallet.

  Arturo's.

  There was his face on the driver's license, staring back at me, accusing me.

  "Rot in hell, asshole," I grumbled at the picture as I reached into the fold to pull out a wad of cash.

  Two thousand.

  That would get me safe.

  I could figure it out from there.

  Don't ask me why I didn't just drop the wallet in the trashcan and make my escape from the city. I don't know the answer.

  All I know is that I didn't do that.

  I sat on a bench, flipping through the wallet.

  And that was when I found it.

  The letter.

  And the picture.

  I read it once, twice, three times, before the words started to sink in, to penetrate, to make sense.

  Then I reached for the picture again, not wanting to believe it, but there was no denying it.

  I sat there for a long time, long enough that my ass started to hurt, staring down at what I just found, trying to decide what it meant, if anything.

  But it did mean something.

  And, I guess, I wasn't running away after all.

  I had one more wrong to right.

  And then I would be done with this fucking family once and for all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lorenzo

  Apparently, one does interesting things when they are coming out of the drugs used for a medically-induced coma.

  Like demand someone turn the lights on, when the problem was your eyes were still shut.

  Like ask for someone to stop spinning the room when the room was, of course, stationary.

  Like offer to ruthlessly murder the shitty husband of the nurse who had been telling the other nurse that he'd been cheating on her for six months.

  I remembered exactly none of this, but was told all of it by a smiling Emilio as he stood at my bedside, looking worn out, eyes baggy, skin pale, clothes wrinkled.

  "How long have I been out?" I demanded.

  "Just over a week," he told me, eyes pained. "It was touch and go. They didn't give you a great odds. Thank fuck you're a stubborn bastard," he said, giving me a weak smirk.

  "Where is she?" I demanded.

  I didn't know much when I was out.

  Of the actual world.

  A lot of people wake up from their comas saying they heard every sentence uttered to them, felt every brush of a hand, tried so hard to get back to the surface of their consciousness.

  That was not me.

  I guess maybe because of all the drugs.

  I knew nothing of the world around me.

  Not the constant beeps of the machines I was hooked up to. Not the squeaking of the nurses' shoes. Not Emilio's demands I wake the fuck up already and fix this mess.

  All I knew was blissful unconsciousness. And dreams of Giana.

  The soft brush of her hand. Those gray eyes. Her voice calling out my name.

  I spent seven days in my head alone with Gigi.

  But I was in the real world now.

  And I needed to know where she was, if she was okay, when I could see her.

  "We don't know," Emilio admitted, wincin
g, bracing for the impact of my rage.

  "What the fuck do you mean you don't know where she is?" I roared, folding up in the bed, the machine at my side starting to scream.

  There was hardly a blink before I could hear those squeaky shoes rushing in, a pretty blonde nurse coming in at my side, looking at the machine, pressing a hand to my chest.

  "You need to stay calm," she told me, voice firm.

  "I need to sign myself out," I shot back, ripping the monitor off my finger, the tube out of my hand.

  "You really need to see the doctor. He is on his way in. Mr. Costa, you were shot in the head. You had surgery. And you were in a coma. You need to take it slow."

  "I know what happened. And I know I need to get the hell out of here," I told her, regretting my tone when she shrank back.

  Let's face it, they knew average people didn't get shot in the head.

  They likely heard all about who I was.

  "He's not going anywhere until he gets looked over," Emilio assured the nurse. "But maybe tell the good doc he better get in here within the next five minutes, okay?" he asked, tone heavy with meaning. Or else.

  The nurse rushed off, leaving us alone in the stark white room, the sun streaming in through the large windows.

  "I need you to talk," I told him, pushing the button to fold my bed up. I hated to admit it, but I was a little light-headed, a little off. "Where is Giana?"

  "Look," Emilio said, face grim. "A lot of shit has gone down since you passed out. And I need you to cooperate with these doctors. Because I need to get your ass out of this bed, out of this hospital, in a suit, and in front of the families. As soon as possible."

  Emilio was rarely serious, never grave.

  But he was both of those things right that moment.

  I had no idea what had happened, but I knew I had to trust him, that I had to make sure I was able to function, then get the hell out of there, so he could fill me in.

  "Okay," I agreed, nodding.

  "He's on his way in," the nurse called, barely pausing in the doorway before rushing off.

  "I know. We'll send a basket in apology," Emilio said, shaking his head. "Always such a charmer, Lorenzo," he added, reaching for his phone, blowing off a series of texts.

  I wanted to press him, but then the doctor was there, spouting off a bunch of shit about my surgery, about how lucky I was, about possible complications, about therapy should I need it, about follow-up visits with a neurologist as well as my primary care doctor.