Repaying the Mafia’s Dept #63 - Read Repaying the Mafia’s Dept 63 Online - All Page

63

Isabella I eat the last of the sandwich that was brought up to me earlier and down a glass of water.

It’s late afternoon but I’ve already eaten more than I would normally in a week.

The doctor came back to check on me and instructed me to eat. I’m at the point where I need to, or rather, my body needs to and has taken over control of my mind so I’m just shoving everything that comes my way down my throat.

I’m starting to feel better and stronger. Not that it benefits me. It just means lasting for as long as I’m needed here.

When I finish eating, I go back on the terrace. Today I sense a storm brewing. I can smell the thickness of rain in the atmosphere. The temperature has dropped, making it more bearable than the other day.

I haven’t seen Tristan since then. Just like when he avoided me the day after that inappropriate moment we shared.

After what I said to him, I can’t quite predict when I’ll next see him. There’s something bothering me though, so I’m glad for the limited contact with people today.

In my dreams the other day I saw that man again. This time I actually saw him, clearly.

My nightmares since my mother was killed only featured my father. I’d forgotten the other man was there too. It was almost like I’d stepped into a room in my mind where my memories are stored away.

I have no idea who the man is. I’d never seen him before the incident.

In my delirious state I remembered him. Now that I think of it maybe my mind held on to the memory because seeing an Italian man in my home was strange.

Back then I wouldn’t have thought it odd, now I definitely do.

My father hates anyone linked to the Italian mafia. Those he’s done business with are complete exceptions and wouldn’t have come into a house he shared with family.

My father’s family was killed by a powerful Sicilian mafia boss when he was younger. The man’s name was Federico DeLuca My father was twelve when it happened. His whole family were taken from him. His mother, father, two sisters and a baby brother who was only three months old.

Federico killed them all because they were part of the Bratva, and he was on a rampage to kill those linked to the loss of his business. He spared my father though, but only because he was in the habit of collecting young boys to keep as slaves or to fight for him. He did both to my father. He kept him as a slave, beating him near death on many occasions. Then when he got older, he trained him to be a cage fighter.

My father used to tell me the gruesome stories. The Circle of Shadows began there. He managed to overthrow Federico with the help of others who were taken, and they formed the group with my father as the leader. The only member I know of from that time is Nickoli.

At first, they were part of the Bratva but as they gained power and strength, they didn’t need anybody anymore.

During the time my father killed my mother it would have been at the height of his power. Seeing him with anybody of Italian descent would have been odd.

That man was as guilty as my father in killing my mother. He was there, just standing by, watching.

I still don’t know why she was killed so violently. Dad stabbed her over and over again in her stomach. He did it with rage.

The worse part of it, the part that throws me for a loop, was he’d always told me she was the most important thing to him, and I was the result of their love. Living proof that their love existed.

That was before he changed to what he is today. Or maybe that was what he was all along and at ten years old I was too young to see truth.

The door clicks open, pulling me from my thoughts and I stand waiting to see who’s come to see me now.

If it’s Candace or Tristan’s brother, it means they’re still showing some mercy. It’s neither of them.

It’s Tristan so that means he’s back to badger me again for my father’s location.

“I’m taking you downstairs for some questioning,” he announces and a shiver snakes down my spine.

He hasn’t done that before. I haven’t left this room.

“Why?” I ask nervously, fear lacing through my voice.

“Just come with me. You’ll see why,” He answers and that feeling just intensifies.

What’s happening now?

What could this be now?

I walk toward him, and he takes hold of my elbow to lead me out of the room.

As we step through the door and proceed down the corridor I realize this is the furthest I’ve gone in this house.

The corridor is wide with a high ceiling and the wall is stone, the floor is stone too and fitting to the homes in the tropical isles. I contemplated that yesterday because of the heat but couldn’t be sure.

We move down a set of stairs, also made of stone and once we go down them, I take in my surroundings.

There’s a kitchen ahead of us where two people are cooking and there are two men at the end of another corridor that leads outside.

To our right, and about twenty feet away is a door that looks like the front door to the house.

Tristan leads me over to a room where his brother stands by a large TV screen attached to the wall.

Candace isn’t in here. It’s just the three of us.

There’s a chair in the center of the room where Tristan sets me down.

“What is happening?” I ask.

“Something I’m hoping will coerce you into telling me where your father is,” Tristan replies and all I can do is stare back at him knowing whatever this is, it can’t be good.

His brother switches on the TV and when the image of Sacha’s beaten face comes on, I gasp, and shock makes me bolt to my feet.

“No,” I breathe out.

They got Sacha. They have him. He’s tied to a chair and there’s a man standing over him with a long reach knife. Sacha’s face is beaten so badly I can barely recognize him.

I look to Tristan and shake my head.

He thinks this is going to make me talk? It won’t because I don’t know anything.

“Please don’t do this,” I beg. “I don’t know where my father is.”

“This man has the same mantra as you. He doesn’t know where your father is either, yet he works for him. You are his daughter, and you have no idea where to find your father. Tell me where he is, or your Sacha is dead.”

A stone drops in the pit of my stomach and I gaze back at Tristan in utter disbelief. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I can’t believe he could be so cruel.

“I don’t know where my father is. Please let Sacha go.”

Tristan looks from me to the screen and nods his head. At that the man next to Sacha switches something on and Sacha’s body starts convulsing. Sparks of white light ripple off his body and I scream when I see its electricity. They’re torturing him. Electrocuting him.

As Sacha screams , I cry and just like when Eric was killed, I feel helpless. I can’t help him. I can’t do anything. This time I’m not being bound, but I’m still being made to watch.

Sacha screams and I look at Tristan who’s staring at me with a hardened gaze.

As our eyes lock, I see destruction. At the same time, I also see another path, one I have to try and take to save the only person who’s been like a father to me.

I rush forwards and grab on to Tristan’s shirt, hoping against hope that I can appeal to the man I met in the park. I search his piercing blue eyes and try to see beyond the storm brewing within them. I try to find the man I was drawn to and hope I can reach him.

“Please stop this Tristan,” I wail. “Look at me. You did this to make me cave and tell you where my father is. I can’t.”

“Isabella, I need you to tell me where your father is.”

“This is wrong, you must know that. It’s all so very wrong and I don’t believe this is really you.

Please.” I’m begging. I’ve resorted to begging because it’s all I can do. “None of this is going to bring the dead back.”

“That’s not the point. Your father has to answer for his crimes.”

“Yes, I agree with you. But this isn’t the way. Tristan… Sacha is like a father to me. Not the devil you seek. The other day you said you would have tried to save Eric if you could. If you meant it, stop this. It’s madness. Save the living. Have compassion on the living. Don’t become worse than Mortimer Viggo. You aren’t. Don’t take away the last person I have left in this world. Please….”

I hold his gaze not knowing if he’s going to listen to me or kill Sacha.

He looks away from me, switching his focus back to the man on the TV screen and stares, looking on in deep contemplation while Sacha screams in pain. Seconds pass that feel like eons then Tristan shakes his head.

“Stop,” he orders and my whole body sighs with relief.

I don’t, however, rejoice just yet though because Sacha has stopped moving. He’s not moving at all and he’s not making a sound.

My heart squeezes and I rush closer to the screen pressing my hands on the surface like I can go through it.

Everything inside me stills when I see blood dripping from his nose on to his lap.

Everything else fades when he doesn’t move and all I can think of is the obvious. He’s dead.

I back away, not knowing where I’m going and then I run not knowing where to go.

I head to the front door I saw on the way down as tears pour from my eyes and I run outside.

I run into the rain as it falls from the sky and joins with my tears. I run until I see sand and then I trip over something and fall into the mud.

I don’t notice the heavy thud of footsteps behind me until I’m on the ground then I see Tristan running up toward me.

Realizing I must be in trouble because I ran outside, I try to back away from him but keep slipping in the mud.

He grabs me and pulls me toward him, but I try to fight.

“Let go of me, you monster, you killed him! You killed Sacha,” I shout. “I hate you. I hate you so much. Let go of me.”

The tears fall harder when he tightens his hold around my waist and I genuinely believe this is it for me. He’s going to kill me now.

Shock, however, suffuses me when he envelopes me with his arms, cocooning me within the walls of his chest to hold me.

“Sacha’s alive,” he says against my ear. Those words are the only thing that stop me from thrashing against him. “He’s alive, Isabella. I’m sorry.”

I lift my head to look at him as he cups my face and I search those eyes. That’s when I see him.

The real him. The man from the park who showed me compassion.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats with more fervency, his tone calming my racing heart.

“I don’t know where my father is Tristan. You have to believe me. I don’t know where he is. If I did, I promise you that I would tell you.”