I manage to stay up most of the night.
I begin to drift off countless times, my eyes begging to close and send me off into a deep slumber, but fear rips them back open every time. In the quiet of the night, with the creepy sounds of the nocturnal animals and insects, I've worked myself into an anxious mess. Every noise freaks me out, and I've convinced myself that the door to the cabin is going to slam wide open and Santo will stand there, smirking at me, before he lunges at me with a knife.
It's safe to say that me, anxiety, and nighttime do not mix well.
Santo ends up coming back with the sunrise. He lets himself in quietly, and I pretend to be asleep until I hear the sound of the shower. Then I rise, making sure my clothes fully cover me. Out of sheer paranoia, I've put on huge, baggy clothes. I even put on a couple layers last night, my panicked brain thinking that the more clothes I had on, the longer it would take someone to rip them off.
That someone being Santo.
I don't know if he would rape me. I remember what he told me, that nobody would be doing that to me. But his word means nothing to me.
The groceries ended up staying out all night, which means most of them have been spoiled. I curse myself for being so entrenched in my anxiety that I forgot to put them away after Michael slipped them inside.
I put away what's not perishable, making myself some toast. Santo exits the shower in a cloud of steam and I choke on my bread.
He gives me a look, and I blush. My nerves feel shot, my heart beating irregularly in my chest. I'm a wreck and I'm praying he can't see.
It's not helping my nerves that he's walking around without a shirt, his skin glistening and a towel wrapped tightly around his hips.
"I didn't put away the groceries," I tell him nervously. "They've gone bad."
He drops his towel, and I nearly choke again. He's facing away from me, and I quickly avert my eyes, glad he can't see my reaction.
"That's fine. Michael will send for more."
"I feel bad," I ramble, listening to the sound of him putting on clothes. Thank God. "I don't like wasting food. I wasted almost everything."
"Nobody gives a shit, Nina. It's fine," he clips, and my shoulders droop.
He sounds exhausted too. Considering the state of his bruises, I'm not sure how he's even standing.
"I'm gonna, um, yeah," I mumble, feeling my eyes fill. I make it to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and letting the tears fall.
I silently cry for so long that I end up flipping the shower nozzle on, so Santo thinks I'm actually doing something productive. The tears just won't stop. Part of it is that I'm so frustrated at myself.
I wish I could find a way to fight back.
It turns out I didn't need to turn on the water out of worry that Santo would become suspicious because when I finally leave the bathroom, my eyes scrubbed practically raw, he's long gone.
+
Only a few hours pass before I'm completely fed up. There's not much to do in the Romano mansion but there's even less to do in this tiny cabin—it might be quaint and cozy, but there's not even a book for me to read.
Plus, I'm alone. That makes it easier for my fears and worries to take ahold of me.
Which is why I decide to talk to Michael.
He's a middle aged man with a bald head and a body as big as about three of me standing shoulder to shoulder. Your stereotypical bodyguard.
"Mr. Romano explicitly ordered to have you stay on the premises," he says in a gruff voice.
"But I'm going insane," I stress, widening my eyes. "Did he tell you how stir crazy I get?"
Michael gives me a curious look, his eyes drifting down to where I'm scratching my arm a little obsessively.
"Uh, no, he didn't. But Mr. Romano will be back shortly—"
"Oh God," I stumble back, my chest heaving as I press into the side of the refrigerator. "Oh God, oh God—"
"Miss? What's wrong?"
I breathe in deep inhales that come out as sobs, and one look at Michael tells me he is stressed.
Good.
"Can I just—I need to walk around a bit outside," I gasp, making sure to wheeze a little bit. "I won't go anywhere, I promise. Please."
Michael nods so quickly that I almost feel bad for tricking him and quite likely incurring Santo's wrath on him. I clutch onto his beefy arm as he carefully leads me outdoors, pulling in deep breaths as we walk down the sparse dirt path.
"Is this... better, miss?"
"Call me Nina," I smile, finding that it's genuine. "And yes, it is. Thank you, Michael."
I'm pretty sure he blushes a little bit, clearing his throat and fixing his gaze on the path ahead. I bite back a larger smile.
"So, Michael. What's it like working for Santo and his brothers?"
Immediately, his face becomes guarded, and I regret not easing into the questions smoother.
"It's fine, mi—Nina."
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry," I quickly state. "It's just—well, I've only recently been kidnapped and I'm not quite sure how much I should be fearing for my life."
He chokes on his next breath, and I wave a hand in the air. "I know this is your job, and I'm not asking you to compromise it. I just want to know a little more about the men I'm dealing with, you know?"
We walk in silence for several minutes, leaves crunching beneath our feet, and I can practically feel Michael weighing the pros and cons of speaking.
"The Romanos are not men you should disrespect," he says quietly. "They operate on traditional codes of honor and conduct that not many other crime families value. It is for this reason that they appear to be one of the most organized and powerful families in the U.S." His words take on a slight tone of urgency. "I would advise you, m—Nina, not to do anything but what they tell you to do. That is how you survive."
"What... what codes of honor and conduct are you talking about?"
I think of Santo's frequent trips that have him coming back bathed in blood. Of the ease with which the Capo ordered me to the basement to be tortured.
And I wonder how any of that can come from a code of honor.
"Omertà."
At my blank look, Michael goes on, his voice filling with a note of pride. "It's a Southern Italian vow of silence. Under Omertà, any member and associate has sworn on his life to maintain silence in the face of any questioning by authorities or outsiders. It originated in Southern Italy with the Camorra, Cosa Nostra, 'Ndrangheta, and..." he trails off, noting my confusion, "It's not common in this country, is what I mean. But by following this code, the Romanos have benefitted greatly. With many other families, there's plenty of reasons for brother to turn on brother. For fathers to turn on sons. But ever since Massimo became Capo, the family has grown in influence and power."
"And I hope it goes without saying," Michael clears his throat awkwardly, "that this puts you in a... delicate position. You are an outsider. Someone whose very existence they are obligated by blood, by oath, to protect against. At the risk of death by methods that would be... distasteful to think about. Even for me."
My mind is reeling with this new information. What happened before Massimo brought Omertà to the Romanos code of conduct? And why did Santo bring me to their home if he knew this vow that underpins his family—and consequentially his life—would be in peril?
Everything Michael has described feels foreign to me. Growing up, if my brother made one small misstep—if he pissed off the wrong person, mismanaged a drop or a meeting with an important associate—he knew that he would end up in an alley, a knife impaling his gut. A knife that had his father's name written all over it.
In fact, Luciano had facilitated several elaborate set-ups where, had Carlo not delivered on what he was ordered to, he would've ended up in prison for life. With Luciano going scot-free.
Omertà sounds a lot like loyalty. Family.
What do these things mean to the Romanos?
Michael seems to realize he's talked more than he meant to, because he doesn't say another word until the cabin appears in our line of sight.
The second we see it, the crashing of doors and a raised voice reaches both our ears. Michael mutters a curse and we both break into a run.
Santo is in what appears to be a rage when we crash into the cabin. He's just slammed the back patio door behind him when he spots us, his eyes immediately darkening as he stalks across the room.
I scream as he slams Michael's large body into the wall, both hands around the guard's throat. "What did I tell you?" he growls, face twisted in anger. "She is to stay on this property at all times. Is that an order that can be interpreted in different ways I'm not aware of? Was I not fucking clear?"
"Wait! It's my fault," I panic as Santo's fist pulls back to deliver a hard punch, "I was having a panic attack. I needed fresh air and I made him take me on a short walk. I just—I just needed a few minutes of fresh air."
Santo wheels on me, and Michael sends me an incredulous look over his shoulder. "You didn't make him do anything," Santo snaps, "Michael is a big boy, and he can follow orders just fine. Or at least, so I thought."
"Please stop," I beg, and Santo's big body tenses. We wait in limbo, all three of us silent for a few eternal moments, before Santo growls and releases Michael, who barely stumbles before righting himself.
"Jenna will no longer be receiving those funds. Get out of my sight."
For the first time, Michael's face crumbles. "Mr. Romano, please—"
"Get. Out."
The danger in his voice is palpable, cutting into me and leaving me trembling. Michael goes pale, but he's desperate now for some reason.
"She needs those funds. She can't survive without them. I'm begging you—"
"I strongly advise you not to make me fucking repeat myself."
Michael's large body slumps, his face drawn in sudden resignation and something more—something like devastation. He bows his head, and then slips out the door.
"Santo, it was harmless. We—"
"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Leave it, Nina."
"Who is Jenna? What funds?"
"His daughter. She's currently receiving expensive treatment for an auto-immune disorder that Michael and his wife cannot afford. We pay for it." He smirks. "Well, we did."
I stumble back, horrified. "You would kill a child because he took me on a ten-minute walk in the woods?"
Santo shrugs, running a busted hand through his thick hair. He's more banged up, bruises littering his face and dried blood on his lip. There's a certain chaotic, stilted jerk to his movements that makes me wary of him. Of what he's capable of right now.
"He disobeyed orders."
"You're fucking sick!" I'm yelling, horror transitioning to fear and guilt and anger. "How the fuck could you do that to an innocent kid?"
His eyes glitter in response, that sick smirk pulling at his lips.
"There is something deeply, irretrievably wrong with you. I'd rather you killed me now than have to spend another second in your presence. So go ahead and fucking do it."
As each word escapes, I expect him to become more wound up in anger, to explode in rage. But instead, a satisfied smile begins to grow on his face.
"Oh my God." The sight of his satisfaction, like each horrible thing I can say about him is the very thing he wants to hear, is making me reckless. "You're deranged. It was my fault! Don't punish his daughter. That's disgusting. You're disgusting, to hold what should be a kind deed over his head and use it as punishment when you don't get what you fucking want. Is that what your parents did with you? Is—"
I'm pushed back into the wall by his hard, hot body. He's vibrating in fury and an unnamed emotion that has been let loose, seemingly at the mention of his parents, "don't speak of things you know nothing about, little girl. A heart that easily bleeds is a great weakness. That will be what kills you—if I don't first."
His hands are steady as they clamp around my wrists, not allowing for an inch of movement, and my whole body is straight as a rod at the feeling of him pressing hot and hard into me. It's like his anger has ignited his skin, and everywhere we come in contact burns hot.
"I'd rather a bleeding heart than a heart that doesn't exist," I breathe, my body trembling at his threat.
Without a word, he releases me. Broad chest moving in barely measured breaths, eyes telling me a million things while his mouth reveals nothing. Then he's storming out the door and I'm tired—really fucking tired of being left alone.
+
I drift into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning, only to be awoken hours later by shuffling noises and muffled cursing courtesy of my new roommate.
I lay awake in the dark, listening carefully. I can't understand what he's saying since it seems to be in Italian, and the shuffling goes on for minutes before he finally quiets down. I peer around the room, barely making out a lump on the couch that must be Santo.
I stay awake until I hear his breaths steady and elongate, signifying he's asleep. It strikes me as oddly vulnerable, him sleeping across the room from me. It hits me that if I had a weapon, maybe I could hurt him. Maybe I could do worse, and then escape.
But my limbs don't move. I stay in bed, listening to those breaths, and it's an oddly soothing lullaby for the uneasy sleep that follows soon after.
+
Santo looks innocent when he sleeps. His face is smooth, clear of all tension and anger. Dark, full eyelashes spread over top high cheekbones, and his brows are relaxed as soft breaths move his chest up and down gently. His body is much too large for the couch so he's crunched up awkwardly, blanket riding low enough on his hips that it makes me feel like I'm invading his privacy if I look for too long.
I can't help looking at him, even if it makes me feel like a complete creep.
But he's still for once, silent and not on the defensive, so I can see things I'd never otherwise notice. The scars, for one. They litter his chest and torso, some of them small and some of them longer than my hand. All of them are healed and scarred over, clearly from years ago. Most are harder to see under the blanket of ink that covers his skin, but they come to life in close proximity with the early morning light kissing them just right.
Suddenly, Santo shifts, his breath hitching. I freeze. This is the moment he opens his eyes, sends me a cocky smirk, and says something stupid like "take a picture, it would last longer."
Instead, he hugs a pillow to his chest, nestling his face into the cushion.
I move away quickly, not wanting to push my luck. Unexpected anger is flaring in my chest—a man shouldn't look that innocent, not when he's done the things I've seen Santo do.
I think of Michael, and the guilt presses in harder.
My stomach is grumbling at me, so I decide to make breakfast. I bend down to pull a pan from the cabinet, and it clangs quietly against the corner. I hear a sudden rustling and turn around to see Santo on his feet, eyes shifting quickly around the room.
Once he sees me standing in the corner clutching a pan, his muscles gradually unwind. A low groan sinks past his lips as he slowly stretches limbs that must be sore, and I have to avert my eyes from the show of smoothly contracting muscles.
He disappears into the bathroom without a word, and I hear the shower start. He's quick, and I'm plating my eggs and bacon by the time I see his hardly clothed figure cross the room in my peripheral. He dresses in record time, and leaves the cabin.
"Good morning, Nina," I snip, mimicking Santo's voice. "Yes, what a lovely day, I'll see you later! By the way, I'm sorry for kidnapping you and bringing you to this cabin in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. I'm a big asshole and just a miserable fucking person—"
A light tap on the door interrupts me, and I freeze, having gotten carried away. I scurry to the door, opening it tentatively. Michael gives me a grim smile, handing me what appears to be a stack of books. "From the boss," he says, and I take them with a frown.
Santo got me books?
"Michael," I breathe, "I'm so sorry. I tried to get him to take it back. It's all my fault." My voice breaks, and I wish I could do more than apologize. Apologies won't get his daughter the money she needs.
He shakes his head. "No need, miss. I decided to take you off the property. The fault is solely mine."
"No, the fault is his. It's cruel, what he did."
His face softens, and his smile appears a little more genuine for a brief moment. "It's the way the business works, miss. Enjoy your books."
He pulls the door closed with a nod, shutting me off from the outside world. Hopeless and unable to do much else, I spend the day reading. The books might be interesting, but I don't process one word. Darkness clings to the trees outside, the sun making its exit by the time I look up, hearing a rustling sound outside the window next to my head.
It's a thick rustling of leaves, more than a bird or squirrel could cause, that has me setting my book down. I'm straining to see between the thick net of leaves when the glass shatters loudly right before my eyes, scattering everywhere.
I scream as a hand reaches through the broken shards.