Page 95 of Trapped

“Did the police ever catch the person responsible?”

He shook his head, glowering.

“What was your cousin like?”

“Luca? He was a tough little bastard. Fiercer than most men I know now. Once, cops caught us stealing bikes. Luca swore we’d be riding again by sunset. He wasn’t wrong. My uncle pulled some strings, and hours later, we pedaled down the street like nothing happened.”

I tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “He sounds a lot like you.”

Santino shrugged, his gaze drifting to the window. “We never got to find out, did we?”

“No, I guess not.”

He grabbed his wallet out of his pocket and pulled out a worn photograph. “This is him.”

He handed it to me. A young boy with a mischievous grin beamed at the camera.

I took the photo, my heart stopping.

“What is it?” Santino asked.

I stared at the photograph. “He looks like you.”

“Yeah, kind of.”

My fingers lingered on the photo, tracing the outline of Luca’s face. “It’s strange to think about how different your lives could have been.”

As I looked at the boy in the photograph, my hands shook. I knew that face. I had seen it before, many times. My breath caught as the pieces clicked into place.

This boy…Luca…was alive.

I’d grown up with him. He worked for the Providence Bratva, and judging by the blank look on his face, Santino had no idea.

THIRTY-ONE

DELILAH

He’s alive.

I couldn’t believe it.

The boy Santino mourned was the same boy I grew up with in Providence. Luca—my childhood friend—hadsomehowbeen raised in the Bratva. I recognized him immediately in Santino’s photo.

Ithadto be him.

An Italian in a Russian family stuck out, especially with dark hair and permanently tanned skin. No one on Dad’s side had those features. They all had the stereotypical Slavic look—blonde or light brown hair and pale skin. I’d inherited my brunette waves from my mother. It was implied Luca had been adopted. I’d never asked for an explanation, and nobody had offered one.

I stopped asking questions about anything that happened in my house after third grade. Two of my uncles dragged a man I’d never seen—who was covered in blood—into the formal dining room and laid him over the table. They shut the doors, and I heard strange noises all afternoon. I stopped my dad outside thedining room and asked what they were doing to him. He told me to keep my mouth shut and never ask questions. When I defied him by asking again, he introduced my face to the back of his hand.

So I didn’t think twice when Dad introduced me to Luca when I was ten. It was during one of his many attempts to smooth over the fractured lines of our family with displays of wealth. Throughout the years, Luca kept to himself, lurking in the shadows at gatherings, much like I did.

One winter, we sat on the icy steps outside my father’s mansion during Christmas and passed a stolen bottle of vodka back and forth, the alcohol burning our throats as we chased away the loneliness. Luca, even then, wrestled with demons I didn’t understand, and he never spoke of his family.

Why not?

Every Sunday was family night.

Santino’s youngest brother, Kill, lived in a cozy, suburban home. We pulled up to the triple-decker, the front yard scattered with toys, a tricycle, and a small basketball hoop.