Calvino seemed surprised by C.J.’s apparent ingenuity. “Good idea.”
A wide grin spread across the boy’s acne-fied face.
I pushed against the couch with my bound feet as Calvino zeroed in on me, casually, like he knew no matter how hard I tried, he would get the better of me. He stowed the blade and grabbed onto my arm. I sailed back toward the middle of the couch with one stiff yank. Then he shuffled in beside me so we were both under the phone’s lens. He dropped to his haunches and pulled me by the collar of my T-shirt so C.J. could zoom in.
The pungent smell of aftershave rolled over me. I noticed, with horror and an irrepressible sliver of intrigue, that a thick white scar rippled along where Calvino’s hairline might have been once upon a time. As he tilted closer toward me, it glowed beneath the lights, making the top of his head look like a lid.
“Jack Gracewell” — like steel claws shredding a bass drum, every syllable scraped at his throat — “I hope this video finds you gravely unwell.”
C.J. gave him a thumbs-up from behind the phone. I tried to inch away from his father’s shiny head, but he squeezed the back of my neck until he broke the skin with his fingernails, and I let out a yelp of pain.
“As you can see, we have your beloved niece, Miss Persephone Gracewell.” He patted my hair in one long sliding motion. I tried to jerk my head away again, but he grabbed my jaw and pulled me back so that it unhinged itself with a small pop. I closed my eyes and tried not to scream as I set it back into its socket in one agonizing click.
“As you are aware,” he continued to the camera, swatting my flailing hands down in a painful blow, “we were not happy with our conversation earlier and feel your hesitance should result in escalation on our side.”
Escalation? The word rang in my head like a car alarm.
Calvino grabbed my hair and twined his fingers in it, pulling roughly. I threw my arms against his chest, pummeling it as hard as I could, but he angled away from me so I was punching at the air.
“Please!” I screamed.
He kept twisting his fingers through my hair, yanking so hard it felt like he was trying to rip my scalp off.
“You have until midnight to come alone and unarmed to the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Old Hegewisch, where we will talk about the terms of your business activity and the girl’s release.”
So they were misleading him twofold: once about his own fate and once about mine. “You lying assholes,” I spat.
Calvino flung his hand across my face. The blow stung the tears out of my eyes. Bucking wildly, I hit him in the shoulder; he recoiled and cursed under his breath. Seizing the moment his distraction allowed me, I rolled off the couch and struggled to my feet, hopping toward the door.
Calvino lurched forward and grabbed my shoulders, pulling me back to him and that godforsaken couch. I covered my face with my bound hands as he loomed over me, breathing raggedly through his nose. He bent down until I could feel his breath across my hair, ruffling it away from my forehead as he forced my hands from my face.
He slammed the heel of his hand against my nose, and my upper teeth imprinted on the inside of my lips. The taste of salt and rust oozed away from my gums, mixing with the stream of blood coming from my nose. I wheezed as it trickled out over my lips and down my chin.
“Stop,” I begged. I started to claw up over the couch, but Calvino yanked me back again. My head landed against his chest with a thud and he held it there.
“If you don’t show up, Jack,” he resumed his psycho video voice-over, “we’ll kill her. And then we will come for you with every man we have until you are hanging from the ceiling of your restaurant.” He pushed me away and I fell back against the couch, aching and trembling.
C.J. scurried up until there was less than a foot between the lens and me, and I could make out every pus-filled zit on his greasy face.
“You see what you make me do, Gracewell?” Calvino paused as if he was expecting Jack to respond. My crying filled the silence. I hadn’t even realized I was sobbing until I heard myself. He gestured to C.J. to turn it off.
“Nailed it!” his son chimed. “It’s good.” Like he had just gotten an A on a test instead of a video documenting the abuse of a defenseless seventeen-year-old girl.
I spat a pool of blood onto Calvino’s silk shirt. “You’re a monster!”
He raised his hand at me and I flinched away from it. “Watch your tongue,” he cautioned. “Or I’ll take it from your mouth.” Then he stood up and laid a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “Show the video to Felice and send it through. He’ll be leaving soon to set up for Gracewell’s arrival. I’ll follow later with the girl.”
“Can I go, too?” C.J. asked excitedly.
“Next time.”
Nice to know this kind of thing was a regular occurrence in the Falcone family.
The boy disappeared, leaving me alone with my torturer. I fell back into a seated position and pulled my limbs into my body.
“Nothing’s broken,” Calvino informed me in a way that implied I was being overdramatic. He sauntered back to the chair and relaxed into it with a deep sigh.
I wanted to shout profanities at him, but my energy was dying with each breath. I knew I had to escape, if not for me, then for my mother, and my best friend, and my father. And even Jack. Deep down I was still hoping for something that would explain this, something that would make it less horrific than it seemed.