Page 112 of Trapped
Santino’s brow furrowed. “What does he do?”
“Besides ring up customers, you mean? I’m not sure. He might handle some of the back-end work, too—accounts, maybe. But he’s always kept a low profile, exactly the way my dad wanted him to. Low enough that your family would never realize he was still alive.”
Santino’s gaze hardened. “So they raised him to think that he was abandoned. Did they brainwash him or something? What have they been forcing him to do?”
“I don’t know. I wish I could tell you more.”
Santino let out a frustrated sigh.
He’d grilled me on the drive to Providence, but most of my answers consisted ofI don’t know. He’d been especially curious about why Luca hadn’t escaped in fifteen years of captivity. Again, I had no explanation to give him. I had no idea if Luca had been threatened or was Stockholmed into compliance.
All the answers to Santino’s burning questions were in that store, but Santino couldn’t walk into a Bratva-owned business without getting shot on the way out.
He started to unbuckle his seatbelt.
Alarmed, I grabbed his forearm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He paused, halfway out of the seat. “I need to talk to him. Face to face.”
“Okay, buthoware you going to do that?”
He jerked his head toward the store.
“No. Hell to the no. That’s areallybad idea. He’s not going to be alone. And I guarantee you he has a gun behind the counter.”
“It’ll be fine.”
He opened the car door.
I watched him stroll to the entrance of the grocery store, biting my lip. Then I got out and ran to him. My ballet flats slapped the pavement as I hooked my arm through his. Santino didn’t stop walking, but he slowed down.
We opened the door, and a bell chimed. We turned right into an aisle of canned goods. I grabbed a basket and walked around, filling it with a few items—corkscrew pasta, sour cherries, sausage from the fridge. Santino reached for an item on the top shelf as his attention wandered to the cash register.
Behind it, there was a small kitchen. A tall, stainless steel pot simmered on the stove, and a satellite radio blared sports commentary of a Russian soccer league. Low voices rumbled behind a plastic curtain.
My throat tightened as Santino approached the counter. His palm slapped the bell.
The plastic curtain rippled, and Luca walked through. He looked just like a typical street thug, fade haircut, eyebrow slits, oversized hoodie, and tattoos on his hands and knuckles.
“Ready to check out?” he asked.
Santino nodded.
I waited for a sign of recognition as Santino pushed the basket toward him, but Luca didn’t glance in my direction. Santino’s knuckle rapped the thick plate of plastic glass in front of the register.
“What’s this for?”
Luca hit the keys on the cash register. “Protection. Lots of crime in the area.”
“Oh yeah? Shame.”
Luca finally looked at me, swallowing hard. His hands paused, and his eyes flicked up to meet Santino’s before returning to the register. “Did you find everything you need?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” Luca deadpanned. “That’ll be twenty fifty-eight.”
Santino glanced at me. I shook my head slightly, my stomach twisting with nerves. He turned back to Luca, his expression unreadable. He handed over cash, and the register sprang open. A small machine spat out a receipt, and Luca ripped it off, shoving it and Santino’s change into his palm.