I’m far from reassured but I turn to the others. “I’ll talk to her first.”

“Why?” Doc demands.

I point to the Velluto crest on the wall.

“Fine. But I’m second.”

“Third,” Bobby says, a flush working its way down his neck.

“Then we have a consensus.” I pour out more grappa. “Cards?”

We call downstairs for cigars and brandy. Doc takes over the sound system playing the kind of jolting acid house that sets your teeth on edge. We talk, tell jokes, go over the interesting parts of the abduction and speculate on whether Parker is slitting his own wrists. Doc robs us blind, as he does whenever we play cards. The tension between us melts away and we laugh together, the way we did when we were boys.

And yet there’s another figure hovering by our table, watching silently in her wedding lingerie. I glimpse her in the moments between beats, between hands, between swigs of brandy and puffs of smoke. I feel her there and wonder if she’s sleeping or crying in her cage beneath Velvet House.

Chapter Six

January Whitehall

This is worse than a nightmare. Nightmares end and this goes on and on and on. What kind of people have a basement cell in their house? Or was it made for me? It’s hard to know which idea is scarier.

I lie on the single bed with the limp pillow over my face, waiting for something to happen. My stomach gurgles non-stop. In the corner of the cage is a small, walled-off bathroom with a toilet and sink but no shower. I can drink from the tap, but there’s no food. I think it’s close to three days since I’ve eaten. I take out Zia Teresa’s St. Christopher and run my fingers around the edges.

When I woke on soft red carpet in a beautiful house, I thought I’d been rescued. Seeing Doc’s awful smirk, my hopes died a second time.

Domenico Valente.

A poetic name for a terrifying man. The priest’s vestments hid his neck tattoos and his lean, powerful body. In a sleeveless T-shirt and black jeans, he reminded me of an arctic wolf. I remember what ‘Tesorina’ means now. Treasure. He’s mocking me. I don’t know much about people, but I know when they hate me for being a Whitehall. Lurida sgualdrina, he called me. Filthy whore.

But I’m not a whore. I’d never kissed anyone until him. I recall the way he pressed his lips onto mine and heat goes skittering through me like flame across oil.

“I didn’t like it,” I tell the cell. “He had a knife. He slapped me.”

No one answers.

I don’t like bad boys. That was Giuseppina. I crossed the street when I heard loud voices or saw tattoos. I like nice boys. Boys like…

Roberto Bassilotta.

In my senior year, I needed help with Algebra. I’ve always been terrible at math, but mom wouldn’t let me drop it. My teacher said Bobby was the best tutor in the tri-state area, so mom arranged a trial session. Quinn was so jealous.