A steel table had been set up in the center of the room, a plastic tarp placed beneath it, and on that table was Franco, his arms strapped down on either side of him, his legs cuffed in the same way. A light sheen of sweat was covering his face and naked torso, and if Violet wasn’t mistaken, he was shaking as well.
There was nothing to cover his head, so his panicked, frenzied gaze was clear for them all to see. She knew she should have walked away then, put everything she was seeing to the back of her mind and act as though it had never happened. But she felt stuck, almost frozen in time as she watched the scene play out before her.
Franco wasn’t the only one in distress, however. Carmine, while off to the side, was pacing the floor, scrubbing a hand down his face every few seconds, as though he too were still trying to make sense of what was happening. He wasn’t wearing the same clothes he’d been in earlier—instead, he was in a pair of wrinkled jeans and a shirt whose logo was so faded, the original design couldn’t be made out.
He shook his head hard, muttering something that Violet couldn’t hear, but one of the men he was in the room with could. The man gestured to Carmine first, then to Franco who was now pleading, his hands in tight fists as he tried to break free of his restraints.
It was rare, Violet thought, for her brother to display such anguish. Alberto had never been easy on him that way, always demanding that Carmine act like a man, even when he was a boy. So, to see this emotion in him made Violet’s own heart seize with worry.
What was happening?
It took some convincing, or rather it was a sharp slap to the back of Carmine’s head, that finally had him crossing the room, picking up an instrument from the table near the wall. Violet crept a little closer, squinting her eyes to see better, but there was no need, not when Carmine came right back to where he had been standing, and she could now see what he was holding.
The glint of silver drew her gaze down to his hand, to the small blade she might not have noticed otherwise. It was thin, almost concealed entirely, but it was the sharpened tip that told her what it was.
A scalpel.
It was time to leave. She needed to leave, but no matter how loud the words were screamed in her own head, she remained in place, though her grip on Olly’s collar tightened just a little more.
Carmine approached slowly, as though this was the last thing he wanted, his face reflecting each plea that was shouted from Franco’s mouth. He stopped just at the edge of the table, and though he was looking at Franco, he couldn’t meet his eyes—that was one place he refused to look.
He raised his instrument, his hands shaking as he brought it down to Franco’s chest, resting it right in the middle, but he didn’t cut, not yet. Or at least not before he mouthed an apology that would mean nothing in the next few seconds. Because once he finally dragged that blade down, blood welling immediately as Franco’s skin split open, he screamed, a blood-curdling yell that even Violet could hear.
One of the other men in the room rushed forward, clamping a hand over Franco’s mouth to muffle his cries of pain, even as he used his substantial weight to hold a thrashing Franco still. Carmine didn’t remove the blade until he reached the man’s abdomen, then backed away, his face a little greener than it had been before.
But that was only the first, because very soon, that scalpel was replaced with bolt cutters, and Carmine had to return to his once childhood friend.
Nausea churned heavily in her stomach, threatening to spill out of her in a moment’s notice. Finally, when she saw Carmine position the metal around one of Franco’s ribs, she squeezed her eyes shut just as he snapped it free.
Scrambling backward, Violet dragged Olly with her as she hurried away, breathing heavily through her nose as she tried to quell her need to vomit what little she had eaten that day.
Maybe it was the fact that Olly sensed Violet’s distress, but the dog didn’t fight to return to the cabin as she pulled him back to the pathways. She couldn’t run fast enough, couldn’t make her mind forget the images burning their way into her retinas.
Even when she closed her eyes, it was still there.
All of it.
Swallowing convulsively, she desperately willed the vomit to stay away. The burning prickle of tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away.
Once her sneakers hit the stone pathways again, she took a deep breath. It didn’t help. She might have been back in the safe zone, but she felt anything but okay.
How was she supposed to sit at the dinner table later with her brother, knowing what she did, seeing what she had?
Oh, God.
Violet was three-quarters of the way back to the mansion when she nearly rammed right into her father as they both came around a blind turn in the path. She was moving much faster than Alberto was.
“Slow down, Violet,” her father said, chuckling.
It didn’t sound true.
She schooled her features, knowing her panic and fear had to be written on her face as clear as day.
“Daddy,” she greeted fast.
Too fast.
Too high.
Too breathless.