Broken Trust

Dante It’s well past midnight when I enter the keypad code for the gate that secures the main entrance to the Deep Cellar.

The partially underground structure serves as a climate-controlled warehouse for the Bellanti family’s personal wine collection, as well as highly select priceless vintages. This place is so off the grid, only a handful of people know of its existence—and even fewer know what else goes on down here.

The gate automatically clicks shut behind me, and I walk through the front storage room to the far back where the tunneled cellar goes deep underground. My footfalls echo on the cement floor as I traverse the short tunnel toward the dull red glow of a cigarette at the end.

It’s been a while since the soundproof hidden room has served a more devious purpose than carefully storing expensive wine, but judging by the look on Donovan’s face as I approach, Armani is making up for lost time.

“Bregman’s inside?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

The man responsible for my father’s death is in there. I can feel it.

Though technically, George Bregman isn’t the responsible party. He’s just the man who sabotaged my father’s vehicle—on someone else’s orders. There’s more to the story, and we need to get it out of Bregman one way or another.

Hence the need for this…meeting.

Donovan drops his cigarette and crushes it under his boot, then grabs the handle of the heavy, arched wood door that muffles the sounds of what’s going on inside the cellar.

“Yes, boss. Armani’s…taking care of him,” he says. “You want me to lend a hand, you just say the word.”

“Will do.”

I take a deep breath. Then I nod for him to open the door.

Donovan puts on a good show when it comes to playing the family’s personal driver, but of course he’s much more than that. He’s loyal, discreet, and he can clean up any mess—any mess at all. It’s the reason I hired him. And he hasn’t let us down yet.

I make my way down another passageway, past long racks of bottles, all retrofitted to be shock absorbing and fireproof. They also keep the cellar soundproof. Which is good, because Armani is apparently doing something to Bregman that’s making him scream, low and guttural. I steel myself for what I’m about to see as I round the corner.

It’s not as bad as it could be. Bregman is tied to a sturdy wooden chair. Head strapped to the tall back. Arms and legs bound. Nothing I haven’t seen before.

Armani stands behind him with one of Bregman’s hands splayed behind his back, the wrist twisted unnaturally so most of the fingers point up. Blood has dripped onto the floor from the fingernail Bregman already lost. By the looks of it, Armani is about to remove another.

“F-f-fucking Jesus fuck!” Bregman is stuttering, sweat pouring down his face.

“Not to worry,” Armani soothes, the picture of calm. “Nails grow back. Unlike balls. All things considered, I’d say it could be a lot worse. Don’t you think?”

“Please, fuck, stop. Please, stop!”

Armani has the pliers clamped firmly around the nail he intends to remove, but before he can start pulling, I interrupt with, “Has he said anything yet?”

My brother stops what he’s doing to look up at me. “Nothing besides ‘please stop’ and ‘I don’t know anything.’ He’s like a goddamn broken record.”

His face has a look of pure disgust, but it’s not because he detests his prisoner—it’s because he hates this whole process. Armani takes no pleasure in playing torturer, despite acting every inch the hard-ass. It’s all for show. An effort to rattle Bregman further, get him talking as quickly as possible. I know from past experience that Armani will barely eat for the next few days, that he’ll brood in his office, that when it comes to his job, he’ll continue doing everything in his power to avoid future interrogation sessions like this one. Cruelty doesn’t come naturally to him; it never has. He’s no Enzo Bellanti, and I’m glad for it.

A hum rumbles in my throat. “Maybe we should give Donovan a turn, after all. He’s chomping at the bit out there.”

“Oh yeah?” Armani says, playing along.

I nod. “The man brought his own tools. Not that we don’t have plenty here.”

Now there’s a man who derives a certain relish from this kind of thing. In which case, fuck fingernails; Donovan likes playing with fire. Actual fire.

Turning to Bregman, I ask, “Do you know what a knee splitter is? You like walking, right?”

He begins to sob uncontrollably. Walking closer, I circle the chair he’s tied to and get a good look at his battered face. His left eye is swollen shut, both lips split. I lean down, so I can look him in his one good eye.

“You’ll answer my questions or I’ll have my friend come in here and rip your balls out of your sack so he can stuff them down your throat,” I tell him. “We understand each other?”

Bregman nods, breathing hard. Good. Progress.

“You’re a mechanic at Sonoma Speedway, yes?”

“Yes! Yes.”

“You altered Enzo Bellanti’s car while he was there for one of Marco’s races, yes?”

Bregman hesitates. I motion to Armani, who picks up the pliers again.

“Yes! Goddammit, yes! Please don’t hurt me again,” Bregman says, his voice jagged.

I wave Armani away, and he drops the pliers on a bench with a sigh, as if he’s disappointed he can’t use them.

Taking our prisoner’s chin in my hand, I force him to look up at me with his good eye. “I want the whole story. All of it. Now.”

“Okay, okay, anything you want,” he says, trying to steady his breathing. “There was a guy. He showed up at the garage one day with twenty grand in a paper bag. Said he’d give me eighty more if I made a few changes to Enzo’s car so he’d have an accident.”

“So he’d have an accident?” Armani repeats, his voice icy. “Or so he’d die?”

Bregman’s shaking his head. “No. The guy never said a fatal accident, just enough to shake Enzo up a little.”

“Liar,” I say, grabbing the pliers myself and hitting him upside the head with them even as he screams and begs to be left alone.

“It’s the fucking truth!” Bregman wails. “I swear. What I did to that car, it shouldn’t’ve even made it to the freeway. It was supposed to break down before he even hit thirty-five miles an hour, thirty-five max, I swear. I never thought he’d fucking die, swear to fucking God.”

“Shut up. You’re babbling,” I tell him, my voice full of contempt.

Armani comes up beside me and crosses his arms. “Who hired you, Bregman?”

“I don’t know.”

Armani’s arm shoots out, lightning quick, and he backhands Bregman across the face.

“Who. Fucking. Hired you.”

But Bregman’s adamant. “Jesus Christ, I don’t know him! I don’t know. Never got his name and I never saw him again.”

“How’d you get the other eighty k then?” Armani pushes.

Bregman shakes his head again. “I didn’t. He never paid me the rest of the money, but I left it alone. I was too scared to try finding him.”

“Bullshit.” It’s my turn now. I grab Bregman by the hair and wrench his head back hard. “Gimme the fucking name.”

“I swear, I don’t have a name!”

“You killed a man without knowing how you’d get paid for it?” Armani scoffs. “You really that fucking stupid?”

“He was gonna kill me if I didn’t do it—I didn’t have a choice!” Bregman whimpers pathetically.

“How was he supposed to get into contact with you?” I prod. “There had to be a way.”

He hesitates, and I let go of his hair and stride toward the hall.

“Let me know when you run out of nails to pull,” I call over my shoulder to Armani. “I’m fucking done with this lying sack of shit.”

“No!” Bregman shouts. “Wait, please, wait!”

I turn back around, spreading my hands. Armani has Bregman’s arm twisted painfully behind his back again, and he’s breathing hard.

“This is your last chance,” I tell him.

“I’m not lying,” Bregman insists, gasping for air. “Like I said, the old man wasn’t supposed to die. The money guy sent me a few texts after the whole thing, but I never saw him again, I never got paid the rest. I swear.”

“Describe this guy,” Armani says. “The one who gave you the job.”

“Blonde hair, light skin, tall, over six foot,” Bregman blubbers, his voice pitching high with panicked desperation. “Light eyes, maybe green or blue, I don’t know. Not brown, not dark. He’s got a tattoo going up his neck. Antlers or spikes or something.”

“You said he texted you.” Bregman nods and I look at my brother. “You got his cell?”

Armani pulls out a shitty burner phone from his pocket. He powers it up and uses one of Bregman’s unbloodied fingers to unlock the screen, then hands it to me.

There’s no reception down here, but I don’t need it to find what I’m after. I scan the messages and see texts from an overseas number, along with a photo of Marco’s racing Porsche. There are instructions to tamper with Marco’s car the same as Enzo’s, and threats against Bergman if he chooses not to cooperate.

“How about that,” I say slowly, flashing the screen at Armani before scrolling back through the older messages.

My eyes track to Bergman’s. He slumps in his bindings, as if he can shy away from us. As if there’s any hope of escape.

There’s not.

Holding the phone, I read out loud:

Eighty k transferred conf# 20223270247210.

You’ll get another 160 to fix up the Porsche before the race next week.

I let out a low whistle.

“Now that’s a pretty penny,” I say colly. “Over a quarter million total, right, Bregman? Enough to retire on, if you go to Mexico. I hear Ecuador’s nice, too. Great beaches.”

Bregman begins to whimper and twist against his bonds.

“You lied,” I say with a sigh.

Bregman’s eyes go wide, his face falling as realization sets in. His fate is sealed.

“One more chance, asshole. I need the name of the man who hired you,” I tell him. “The name—now—in exchange for your life. And then you get twenty-four hours to leave the country and never come back. Because I’m feeling generous.”

“More than generous,” Armani says.

“I swear I don’t know!” Bregman chokes out. “I swear on my life! But the money guy, it really was the tattoo guy. That’s all I know!”

Armani and I look at each other. I nod.

He withdraws a Glock from his jacket and Bregman starts up with the begging again. I turn and walk back down the hall, knocking for Donovan to open the door just as a shot fires.

There’s no doubt. Someone is out for the Bellanti family.

Time to circle the wagons and prepare for war.

Frankie:

Miami sucks.

It’s Thanksgiving week, for crying out loud. How can it still be so muggy and hot? I just showered half an hour ago and my hair and clothes are already damp with sweat again and sticking to my skin. Which means the wet spot from scrubbing vomit off the front of my red polyester uniform is going to take forever to dry before I head to work. Damn humidity.

And double damn my stomach that refuses to keep anything down.

The bathroom floor tiles are cool at least as I sit on the floor, anxiously waiting for another heave to rip through me. I have a hair dryer in one hand, plugged in and ready to dry the spot on my dress. No one wants a waitress that smells like vomit. But I don’t have the strength to turn the dryer on yet. It feels better just to sit here…and wait.

My eyes track to the edge of the bathtub, but I can’t bring myself to look at what’s sitting there. The reason I’m going to be late to work again.

I’ve only managed to arrive on time twice since I started this job, and it’s honestly a mystery why I haven’t been fired yet. Gearing myself up to walk into the diner takes some effort. The deep-fried smells have really been getting to me. Greasy bacon, the lingering scent of browning onions, burnt coffee, tuna melts on rye. The rotten dairy stench of coffee creamer and the metallic tang of ketchup when I refill the bottles. It makes my stomach roll.

Of course, I’ve always had a nervous stomach when it comes to stress. But this is different.

It’s been going on for a while now.

Hence the little plastic stick balanced on the edge of the tub at this very moment.

Just then, there’s a loud thud against the closed bathroom door. With a groan, I scoot back and brace myself against the door. The lock is broken and it doesn’t take much to push it open. A low whine sounds, followed by heavy panting from the other side.

“I don’t need any help, Miggy, but thank you,” I say.

My mom’s huge mastiff took an immediate liking to me and barely leaves my side now. I can’t go anywhere without him following me. Remembering the hair dryer, I flick it on and aim the nozzle in the crack beneath the door. For a dog that’s the size of a small horse, he sure is a weenie about a lot of things. There’s another whine followed by the clip, clip, clip of his nails on the laminate floor as he retreats. I sit there for a few minutes and turn the hair dryer onto my wet uniform. The heat feels soothing, even though I’m sweating.

Finally, I stand and unplug the hair dryer, tucking it back into the vanity drawer. I catch my reflection in the warped medicine cabinet mirror. My distorted image looks back at me. It’s hard to even recognize myself. And not completely because of the funhouse mirror, either. I look haggard, the bags beneath my eyes puffy, my hair frizzy and limp.

How the fuck did I end up here?

Oh right. Selfish father. Lying husband. The ever-tightening noose of responsibility punctuated by the ever-present theme of Extremely Disappointing men in my life. It was either leave Napa or explode. So I took off in the Jag Dante’s money had bought me and drove to the one place nobody would ever think to look for me—my mother’s apartment in Florida.

She’d been floored to find me standing on her doorstep, but even though we hadn’t spoken since she came to my wedding in Napa, she didn’t turn me away. And even better, she didn’t ask a lot of questions. In fact, she hasn’t asked me anything at all, perhaps assuming the worst about the state of my marriage. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, but it’s typical of her not to get too invested in her children’s lives. She abandoned us, after all, and never looked back.

I didn’t actually intend to end up here. It just sort of happened. The only person I told was Charlie, and she’d die before telling Dante where I am. Plus, she can lie like the devil herself when she wants to…so there’s no way my ex-husband will find me. If he even wanted to…

My heart lurches at the thought of him, the same way it does a hundred times a day because I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s miserable. But there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it.

Stepping back from the mirror, I can’t help freaking out about the way my reflection in the wavy glass makes my lower torso bulge strangely. So I look away and step over to the chipped, avocado-colored tub, lowering myself to sit on the edge. This whole apartment is like a freaking time capsule of what had to be the height of interior design in the 1960s. And the kitchen—it’s all turquoise cabinets and flowered linoleum flooring and this weird spiky light fixture that I’m constantly hitting my head on. I mean yeah, it’s sort of cute, it’s just…a bit much.

The timer I’d set on my phone a few minutes ago goes off. It’s time. The little plastic stick has my results waiting in its tiny window. Results I’m not ready to look at yet. Because if I don’t look, it can’t be true.

Bile burns the back of my throat, and I reach the toilet just in time to dry heave into the bowl.

Afterward, I drag myself back over to the sink and rinse my mouth out with cool water.

I need to check the stick. Just get it over with. If I let it sit too long, the results will be inaccurate.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Frankie, are you okay in there?”

My mother’s voice makes my heart lurch. I quietly scramble to put a hand against the door so she can’t come in.

“I’m fine. Be out in a minute.”

“You work soon. You’re going to be late.”

“I know, Mom. I’m just…getting ready to leave.”

“All right. Well, I’m going out now. See you tonight, darling.”

She makes it sound like we’re going to have a cozy dinner for two and then watch a movie together while she braids my hair and asks me about boys. You know, the things I wish she’d done when it still counted.

I don’t respond, just listen for her footsteps to fade away. She’s right. I am going to be late for work. And I can’t avoid this knowledge forever.

Screwing up my courage, I step back over to the bathtub, reach for the stick, and grip it in my fingers. This is it.

Am I about to become a single mother? Will Dante come for the child? Just how badly would he want his baby, his heir? I don’t doubt he’d fight me in court for custody. A chill goes through me. He’s played me so much. How can I trust that he’ll do what’s right for this child?

On the other hand, if it’s negative, I’m free to move on. To pocket some cash from the crappy waitressing gig until I have enough saved to get my own place, find a better job that will help support Livvie until she’s graduated from college. The sky really will be the limit. Because the last thing I want is to be trapped again. I can’t handle any more lies or betrayal.

Either way, I know I’ll have my hands full regardless of what the results are. There is no life for Dante and me, but being a single mother isn’t ever what I had in mind for myself. I’d always hoped that if I did have kids, I’d have more to offer them than the kind of unpredictable, unstable life I’d grown up with. And yet here we are.

Letting out a slow breath, I open my eyes and look at the stick.

Two blue lines.

Holy. Shit.

I’m pregnant. With Dante’s child.

My face flames hot as nausea roils in my belly again, the bathroom suddenly seeming smaller and hotter somehow. Sweat beads my hairline and beneath my arms, a hot tingle going down my spine. I can’t believe it. I’m pregnant.

And I’m definitely going to throw up again.