She had a tinge of a foreign accent that struck Haven as familiar, flashes of the accident coming back to her. It reminded her of the man who had held a gun to her head.
Everyone stopped speaking, shifting their focus to Haven. A pair of familiar eyes met hers, the sight of them making her stomach twist. Nunzio smirked before turning back to his cards, the rest of the men grumbling as they did the same.
The woman grabbed a bottle from a large cooler by the table and poured some of the liquid into a plastic cup before making her way across the room. Haven could make out her features as she approached, her long, stringy hair so blonde it was nearly white, the roots the color of midnight. Her blue eyes were large, her face round and full. She looked like an antique porcelain doll.
“I’m surprised to see you moving around,” she said, her voice gentle as she held out the cup. Haven resisted, and the woman laughed lightly. “It’s water, pretty girl. Drink.”
A part of Haven screamed not to trust her, but there was a bigger part desperate to accept the drink. She gave in after a moment, the cold liquid soothing her burning chest.
“I thought he put you out for good,” she said. “I told Nunzy that last dose was too much. I don’t know why he never listens to me.”
The woman scoured through her purse and pulled out a pack of saltine crackers. “You’re going to want to eat these. There’s no telling when you’ll have another chance.”
Although she didn’t trust her, Haven didn’t want her stubbornness to ruin a chance to get some strength. Her stomach hurt with familiar pangs of hunger, so she took the crackers and ate them.
Her eyelids grew heavy. She fought the sleepiness, but it took control of her. She was light-headed and had to lie down as the woman smiled.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice a fading whisper, “but Nunzy won’t bother you if you’re asleep.”
Haven realized, as the pain lifted and the sounds grew muffled, that she’d been drugged again.
47
Carmine groggily glanced around the spare bedroom, his eyes falling on a clock across the room. It took a second for the numbers to register, and he sat up when he realized it was already eight in the morning. Pain surged through every inch of him as he climbed to his feet and descended the stairs. He paused in the doorway of the living room, seeing Dominic still typing away at the laptop as Tess paced. Everything appeared how he had left it.
Nearly half a day had passed, but nothing had changed.
Celia stepped out of the kitchen at the sound of his footsteps, appearing as exhausted as everyone else. “How are you feeling, kiddo?”
How did she think he felt? He hurt, inside and out. His entire life was chaos. Was he supposed to tell her he felt like dying would be relief? Would that make her feel better?
“I feel fucking useless,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “It’s like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I hate that goddamn feeling.”
Celia opened her mouth to respond, but chaos erupted before she could get out a single word.
Dominic jumped to his feet. “It’s connecting!”
Carmine’s heart pounded rapidly as a door down the hall flung open and slammed against a wall. Carmine figured they had heard Dominic, but all hope disappeared when he made eye contact with his uncle. Corrado stared right past him at the door, his tanned skin seemingly void of all color.
Carmine’s blood ran cold. Something was terribly wrong, but never in his wildest dreams could he have predicted what happened next.
“FBI! Search warrant! Get on the ground! Now!”
The shouting rang out from outside, multiple voices yelling at once. Carmine turned in disbelief as something slammed against the door, forcing it open. He flinched as the same noise echoed on the other side of the house, the back door torn from the hinges. Instinctively, he covered his head as a series of loud bangs ricocheted through the downstairs, bright lights blinding him as the police flash bombed the house.
An influx of men in SWAT gear burst through the doors, screaming for them to get down. Tess cried out from the living room as Dominic cursed, their voices muffled to Carmine’s ringing ears. It happened fast, and Carmine was cemented in place as Celia dropped to the floor with her hands above her head.
“Get down!” an officer screamed, pointing his weapon at Carmine, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything. Celia grabbed his foot and yanked it, sending him stumbling. He dropped to his knees, and the officer shoved his face into the floor. They forced his arms behind him, and he cried out, trying to pull his hands away when they grabbed handcuffs.
“Don’t resist,” Celia said. “They need to detain us for their safety.”
He relaxed his arms to let them secure the cuffs. The officer nearly cut off his circulation as he tightened them.
“Vincenzo Roman DeMarco, you’re under arrest for violation of the RICO Acts, Title 18 of the United States Code, Section 1961,” an officer declared as he walked down the hallway, leading Vincent to the front door. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
Carmine grew frantic as they neared. “Dad!”
“Keep your mouth shut, Carmine,” he said as they led him outside. Officers pulled Corrado off the floor next and read him the same rights, placing him under arrest too.
“Call the lawyers, Celia,” Corrado said calmly. “I don’t want them seizing anything without one present.”
“I will,” she said, her voice shaking a bit. “Stay strong.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Corrado said. “I’ll be fine.”
An officer helped Celia off the ground and searched her before they walked away, and others led both Dominic and Tess out of the living room. They pulled Carmine to his feet last and pushed him against the wall, vehemently patting him down and taking everything out of his pockets.
Once they were satisfied he had no weapons, they led him through the front door. The street was blocked off and covered in police vehicles, dozens of FBI agents and local officers swarming the area. Carmine watched as they put his father and uncle in separate unmarked dark SUVs, his footsteps faltering as the reality of it hit him.
“Walk,” the officer said, pushing him.
Carmine stumbled a few steps and winced as they shoved him down on the curb beside Celia. “Take it fucking easy, man! I’m hurt!”
“Do you need a medic, son?” an older man asked, stepping in their direction. Carmine narrowed his eyes, reading Special Agent U.S. D.O.J. written on his vest in bright yellow letters.
“I’m not your son,” he said. “And what I need is to get the fuck out of here.”
“Patience would be nice. I’m Special Agent Donald Cerone, head of the organized crime division.”
Carmine cocked an eyebrow at his Italian name. “Cerone? Must be new slang for traitor.”
The agent snickered, motioning for the other officer to give him Carmine’s belongings. Carmine sighed when the agent opened his wallet, knowing what he would find.
“Ah, what’s this?” he asked. “Carmine Marcello DeMarco. Tell me, son, what year were you born? We have two different IDs here with two different ages.”
“Vaffanculo.”
“Carmine,” Celia warned. “Stop goading him.”
Agent Cerone just laughed again.
A female agent released Celia from her handcuffs and handed her a cell phone to call a lawyer. They gave her paperwork, explaining what they were doing as officers released Dominic and Tess from their restraints. Carmine watched as calmly as he could, but his patience was severely thin.
“Are you gonna take mine off?” he asked. “This is bullshit, Cerone.”
Agent Cerone ignored Carmine’s request and instead tried to ask him questions, which Carmine in turn ignored, refusing to say a word. He ached and shifted position, but every time he did a dozen agents eyed him like he was going to run.
He would. He would run if he could get away.
They brought boxes and bags out of the house, all of them tagged with evidence tape. Carmine leaned back on his elbows and stared at the ground until someone yanked him to his feet. “Should I release him now, boss? We’re nearly done.”
Agent Cerone shook his head. “Take him downtown.”
“For what?” Carmine asked. “I didn’t fucking do anything!”
The smirk returned to the agent’s lips. “It’s been a pleasure, Carmine Marcello DeMarco. I’m sure we’ll see more of each other in the future.”
When Haven regained consciousness for the second time, sunlight streamed through the cracks around the exhaust fan. She tried to block out the pain as she looked around, her eyes meeting the same woman from before. “Good morning, pretty girl.”
Once again, everyone stopped talking and turned to her. Haven’s heart rate accelerated when she spotted Nunzio. In the daylight she could see he had a bandage on his cheek.
“Ah, Sleeping Beauty is awake?” a man asked as he stood from one of the chairs. He was tall with thick muscles, his face rigid as if chiseled from stone. His hair was mainly gray and his nose too large for his face. He, too, had an accent.
Nunzio laughed. “Didn’t even take a kiss from her prince to do it.”
“How do you feel?” the man asked, ignoring Nunzio’s comment. He dragged a chair across the room and sat down in front of Haven. Up close, she could see wrinkles covering his face. “Can you speak, Princzessa?”
Her brow furrowed at the word.
“Ah, confused? You are more comfortable with the Italians. Nunzy, boy, what word am I looking for?”
“Principessa.”
“Yes, do you know that one?” He raised his eyebrows, expecting some response. Haven nodded and cringed from the pain in her neck. “Are you hurting? You may speak. We are friends here.”
She gave him an incredulous look, and the woman laughed. “I don’t think she believes you, Papa.”
“So it appears,” he said, gazing at her curiously. “I cannot say I blame you. You should not trust people, especially the ones you associate with, but I will never deceive you as they have.”
Haven’s voice was scratchy. “What are you talking about?”
“Ah, she speaks!” His hard expression gave way to excitement. “What I am talking about is that your Italians have not been honest with you, nor have they treated you fairly, Principessa.”
He confused her. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Would you rather I call you by your slave name?”
“I, uh . . .” Did she? “I don’t know.”
He laughed. “I cannot believe you do not know.”
“I told you,” Nunzio said. “She’s clueless.”
The man leaned toward her, his hands clasped together in front of him. Haven tried to move away, her back pressed into the corner, his proximity nerve-racking.
