Page 5 of When She Unravels
Sometimes his victims are brought to us, and other times he plays the role of both hunter and executioner. It’s the latter role that he’s famous for among the criminal circles. The men of the New York underworld know that if they get on Stefano Garzolo’s bad side, he only needs to say the word, and my husband will come for them. And that’s enough to keep most of them in line.
The woman stirs. There’s a small movement, followed by a pained moan. She’s not bleeding anywhere as far as I can see, but she must have been sedated.
Lazaro moves with purpose. He grabs her wrists and pulls her hands over her head. She begins to struggle sluggishly, but its fruitless. Lazaro is strong. It doesn’t take him more than thirty seconds to tie her wrists together with a thick rope. When he’s finished, he lifts her by her waist and links the rope on a metal hook hanging from the ceiling. The woman sways, suspended by her arms. At last, her hair falls away from her face, and I see her narrowed hazel eyes.
I press my palm over my mouth. My God, she’s just a girl. No more than eighteen. Around Cleo’s age. A current of nausea slams into my gut and tosses it from side to side.
She starts to pant, but she’s still pretty out of it. Her head lolls from side to side.
“Why is she here?” I ask quietly. There has to be an explanation. Everything Papà does is to keep our family safe, so she must be a threat.
Lazaro shrugs. “It’s just a job.”
“A job?”
“Someone wants her. She happened to be in our territory. A favor was called, so we took her, and now me and you get to play with her for a bit. Someone’s picking her up tomorrow evening.”
My breathing turns uneven. Picking her up dead or alive? Either way, “play” is Lazaro’s code word for torture. Is this somehow connected to what Tito was telling me earlier? “But what did she do?”
“Nothing. She was born with the wrong last name.”
There is no gravity to his words. No indication he realizes the horror of what he just uttered. My husband doesn’t care about why someone ends up in his basement, but I do. I need reasons—excuses—for what we do to these people. I use the crumbs he gives me to justify my actions.
He was a rapist, and now he’s getting what he deserves.
He stole money from the clan, and he could have killed Tito if the shot had landed where he’d intended it to.
He cut the cocaine with enough levamisole to give the buyers seizures.
But this reason is so flimsy it can’t even be used by someone as practiced in mental gymnastics as me.
Suddenly, a scream pierces the air. The sedative must have worn off. The girl starts bucking so hard I’m afraid she’ll dislocate her shoulders. A vein in Lazaro’s neck ticks. He’s not worried anyone will hear her. The basement is soundproofed, and the neighbors know better than to stick their nose in his business. But Lazaro hates when they scream for no reason.
“Quiet now,” he says, pulling out a syringe.
The girl’s screams turn into whimpers. “No, please. Please don’t stick me with that,” she says in a subtle Italian accent.
My husband smiles at her the way he would at a delivery boy. All friendly and good humored. “Are you done? If you promise to be quiet, I’ll put the needle away.”
The girl’s eyes flit from the syringe to my husband to me. She holds my gaze for a second, confusion flickering across her expression. I don’t look like a killer, especially when I’m dressed for a bridal shower. She’s probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here.
“I won’t scream,” she says in a shaking, pleading voice. Her chest rises and falls with her rapid, shallow breaths, and once again, I’m struck by how young she is. Not a single wrinkle on her face, not a hint of a gray hair.
This girl doesn’t seem like the type to hurt anyone.
I shut my eyes as horror swells inside my belly.
“Please, this is a mistake,” she says, trying to keep her voice calm. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m just a tourist. I’m in New York for two weeks with my friend.” Her lips wobble. “Is Imogen…”
Lazaro sticks his hands into the pockets of his slacks and leans back against the wall. “Your friend is dead.”
The girl’s features contort.
Lazaro’s smile grows, and he shakes his head, as if he’s in on some secret joke. “Trust me, out of the two of you, your friend’s the lucky one.”
It takes her a second to process his meaning, but when she does, silent tears stream down her cheeks. “I don’t understand,” she babbles. “Why is this happening?”
“It’s not your fault,” he says calmly. “Don’t blame yourself. There really was nothing you could have done.”
