Chapter 2

Lucia's POV

I stood up, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm here to see Marco. Mr. Moretti. I brought him something."

Her eyes went to the paper bag in my hands, then slowly up my body.

"Something?" She said. "I'm about to be engaged to Mr. Moretti, and my dad is his most trusted man. Mr. Moretti's meals are my responsibility. His schedule is my responsibility." She walked closer. "So I'm asking again. Who sent you?"

My throat felt tight.

"That's bullshit! he's already married, and no one sent me. I just wanted to surprise him."

The woman laughed loudly: "Married? Of course not! He'll only marry me. My father may have just joined Mr. Moretti's side recently, but his wife will definitely be me, Isabella, not you."

"Wait." Isabella held up one hand, her eyes narrowing. She walked around me in a slow circle, looking me up and down. "That accent. You're from the old neighborhood, aren't you? Little Italy?"

"Yes, I—"

"Tony!" She snapped her fingers at the guard who'd let me in. "Did you check her for weapons? For recording devices?"

Tony's face went pale. "I... she's just a girl with cookies, I didn't think..."

"You didn't think." The woman's voice could have cut. "That's the problem." She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in hard. "How much are the Irish paying you? Or did they threaten your family?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" I tried to pull away, but her grip was too strong. "I'm not a spy, I'm not working for anyone, I just came to see—"

She dragged me toward a door I hadn't noticed before.

The men from the corner were standing now, moving closer. One of them grabbed my other arm.

"Please," I said, my voice shaking. "Please, just let me talk to Marco. He'll tell you, he'll explain—"

"Mr. Moretti doesn't have time for Irish spies." She pulled out a key and unlocked the door. Behind it was a staircase going down. "He especially doesn't have time for ones stupid enough to walk right through the front door."

"I'm not a spy!" I was shouting now, trying to dig my heels in, but they were stronger. "My name is Lucia Ferraro, I live above the bakery on Taylor Street, I've never even met anyone from the Flanagan family, please!"

"Everyone has a story." The woman's heels clicked as she walked down the stairs, forcing me to stumble after her. "Let's see if yours holds up."

They shoved me into a metal chair in the center of the room. The single light above was so bright it hurt to look up. Concrete walls surrounded me, pipes ran along the ceiling, and dark stains covered the floor. Oh God, oh God, what is this place?

"Hands behind your back."

"I'm not—"

Cold metal clicked around my wrists, then my ankles. I pulled against the restraints but they didn't give at all.

She'd taken off her jacket and I could see a tattoo covering her left forearm.

"Search her," she said. "Everything."

Rough hands went through my pockets and pulled out my phone, my keys, my wallet. One of them opened it and held up my driver's license.

"Little Italy," Isabella said. "Just like I thought." She came closer, looking down at me. "The Flanagan family's been very active lately. They love recruiting from the old neighborhood. Poor Italian immigrants who need money. Easy to manipulate."

"I'm not working for anyone!" My voice cracked. "I came here to see Marco. We know each other, we—"

"Know each other?" Isabella laughed. "Every girl who wants to climb into Mr. Moretti's bed says she knows him." She leaned down until her face was inches from mine. "So tell me. How did you find this address? Who gave it to you?"

"Nobody gave it to me! Marco told me where he works! We're—" I swallowed hard. "We're married. We've been married for three years."

The room went silent.

Then Isabella laughed, and the sound made my skin crawl.

She turned to the men. "Did you hear that? This little bakery girl thinks she's Mrs. Moretti." She spun back to me. "Marco doesn't have a wife. I would know."

"He kept it secret," I said desperately. "To protect me. Just call him down here, he'll tell you—"

"Mr. Moretti is in an important meeting." Isabella pulled something from her pocket, a silver lighter. She flicked it open and a flame appeared. "And even if I did interrupt him, what do you think he'd say?" She lit a cigar from the table, took a long drag. "Some random girl claiming to be his wife? That's the oldest trick in the intelligence handbook."

"I can prove it," I said quickly. "My necklace. Look at my necklace. Marco gave it to me on our wedding day, it has our initials—"

Isabella pulled the chain from under my collar. The little Virgin Mary pendant dangled in the light.

"A cheap gold chain?" She yanked it hard and the chain broke. She held it up, squinting at the back. "M.M. and L.F." She dropped it on the floor. "Anyone could have this made. Try again."

"The cookies!" I was crying now. "The recipe, it's his mother's recipe, Elena Moretti's lemon cookies. He told me about them, he—"

Isabella's face changed. For just a second, something flickered in her eyes.

She crouches down, cigar tip aimed right at the softest skin on the inside of my right arm.

I shake my head, teeth chattering.

The cigar comes down, hissss—

The sound of flesh burning is like someone tearing wet paper. I scream, but it gets stuck in my throat and comes out as a whimper. A blister puffs up instantly, clear and scalding. I try to pull my arm back, but she holds it down tight.

"Elena Moretti's recipe is a family secret," Isabella hissed. "How would some bakery girl from Little Italy know about it? Someone fed you that information. Who was it? Who told you?"

"Marco! Marco told me!" I was sobbing, pulling against the restraints, and the burn on my arm kept throbbing. "God, you have to believe me!"

"Let's test your story." Isabella picked up one of my crushed cookies from the stairs. She grabs my chin, shoves the cookie crumbs into my mouth, dry as sand. I gag, coughing so hard tears stream down my face. The crumbs go down the wrong way, my lungs taste like lemon and blood.

"Taste good?" she asked. "Is this how you planned to poison him? With his dead mother's recipe?"

I finally managed to swallow, gasping for air. "I wasn't... I would never..."

One of the men cleared his throat. "Boss, maybe we should—"

"Should what?" Isabella spun on him. "Let her go? Call Mr. Moretti and waste his time?" She pulled a small knife from her belt and the blade caught the light. "No. We handle this ourselves. Strip search. Check for wires, weapons, anything."

"No!" I thrashed in the chair. "Don't—"

She grabbed the collar of my dress and sliced downward. The fabric tore and she cut through the sleeves, pulled the pieces away. I was left in my bra and underwear, shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

"Check everything," Isabella ordered.

Hands patted me down, checked my bra straps, the waistband of my underwear. Every time someone touched me, I flinched. The baby. Don't let them hurt the baby.

"Boss." One of the men stepped back. "She's... I think she's pregnant."

Isabella froze.

She looked down at me.

Her face went white, then red, then twisted into something I'd never seen before.

"No," she whispered. "No, you didn't."

She reached out and touched my stomach, just pressed her hand there, feeling the slight swell.

"You're pregnant." Her voice was shaking. "You're carrying his child."

"Yes," I sobbed. "Four months. Don't hurt—"

Isabella jumps up, kicks the chair over. The back of my head hits the floor, stars explode in my vision. And when I could see again, the ceiling was spinning and there was a sharp ringing in my ears.

When my vision cleared, Isabella was standing over me and she was crying. Tears of pure rage running down her face.

"You're lying," she screamed. "It's not his. It can't be his. Marco belongs to me."

"Boss—" one of the men said nervously. "Boss, if she's really—"

"Really what?" Isabella grabbed a metal baton from the tool table. "Really pregnant with Marco's baby? So what?" She raised the baton above her head, pointing it at my stomach. "Bastards don't belong in the Moretti bloodline. The only child Marco will ever have will be MINE."

I was still tied to the chair, lying on my back on the floor, and there was no way to move, no way to get away from her.

"Don't," I begged. "I'm his wife, this is his baby, don't do this—"

"Shut up!" Isabella's face looked insane now. "You're nothing. You're a spy and a whore and your bastard child is going to—"

"Marco will kill you," I whispered. "When he finds out what you did, he'll kill you."

Isabella smiled, and something in that smile made my blood run cold.

"If he ever finds out," she said softly. "Which he won't. Because dead girls don't talk."

She raised the baton higher.

I closed my eyes and put both hands over my stomach as much as I could with the restraints digging into my wrists. Marco. God, I need you. Save our baby. Just save our baby, that's all I'm asking.

"Go to hell," Isabella screamed. "You and your bastard!"

And then—

CRASH.

The door to the interrogation room exploded inward and the sound echoed off the concrete walls.