“A mistake like that won’t happen again,” he grunts. “So count your fucking blessings, Vialle.”
“Mistake...” I chew on the word. “Is that what they call it when an attorney for the DA has been convicted of... What was it?” I snap my fingers as if I’m searching for the right word. “Witness tampering? And, now, every case that attorney so much as coughed on is being thrown out left and right. Let’s just count our lucky stars that the bastard happened to work on mine.”
Van Hallen glowers. “I’ll be waiting for when you screw up,” he promises. “It’s only a matter of time,Kitty.”
I chuckle at the reference to my old nickname. “Do you want to know why they called me that?” I wonder, flashing the detective a wink. “It’s because I always liked to play with my food.”
I don’t know if it’s my tone or my expression that has Van Hallen backing away to the door of the room. He raps on the door, and a guard opens it.
“I’ll be watching, Vialle,” he calls back before shuffling into the hall.
I smile wide and nod. “I’ll be sure to give you and your boys a hell of a good show, then.”
Ten minutes later,I’m wearing a gray state-issued T-shirt and a pair of jeans, standing amongst the armed guards in the lobby of the prison. The clerk behind the counter eyes me up and down. Then he clears his throat and reads the statement he’s holding in his hand.
“Dante Vialle. One cross, silver. One wallet, leather. Fifty-four dollars, twenty cents.” He places each item onto the counter as he reads them off the list. Then he packs everything into a plastic bag and slides it in my direction. “Sign here.”
He hands me a pen, and I sign on the dotted line of the release papers. Just like that, I’m a free man. The world seems to know it. Rain lashes at the windows, and the sky is a weeping, pissed-off gray. Another vicious dog escapes the kennel, but a part of me wonders something right along with Detective Van Hallen: How long will it last?
I’m determined to make a game of it.
I feel nothing when I take the plastic bag of my belongings and head for the main doors. I’m patted down one last time andthen turned loose onto a world that seems eager to spit me right back out.
Rain slicks my hair when I step through the electronic doors. “There’s a shuttle up ahead,” a guard tells me, pointing down a winding road that seems to lead nowhere.
I shrug. “Thanks.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance when I finally clear the main gates. I’m free—but that statement takes on a bitter edge. I’m free while Espi fucks around with Arno and his stupid schemes. I’m free while my name has become nothing more than insult slung by some aging pig.
I’mfree...to return to a city claimed by an entirely new monster. A sane person might feel something like regret for the five years lost behind bars. An animal would relish the challenge.
Vincent Stacatto.I taste the name on my tongue while my boots strike the pavement in tandem. My mouth quirks up into something that might be a smile. Or a snarl.
Due to the result of some stupid technicality, Dante Vialle is free, heading toward a city that only held his memory in the bowels of a police station. Though not for long. Van Hallen gave me a week. I’ll take him up on that—gladly.
Daddy’s home,I think, picturing the world I left behind—all of those things I hated encased in concrete.Daddy’s home, motherfuckers...
CHAPTER THREE
Daniela
“Miss.”Someone shakes me awake, their fingers warm over my shoulder. “Miss...it’s t-time to wake up.”
The timid whisper belongs to a woman. Her fear calls to my own, and the recognition makes me huddle beneath the silken sheets. She has to tap me yet again.
“Miss?”
I finally sit up with a sigh, rubbing at my eyes with one hand. When I blink, a pretty face greets me, sporting a strained smile that does its best to seem comforting.
“Good morning, Miss Manzano.”
I nod in response while the woman hurries over to the handcrafted wardrobe in the corner of my room and throws the doors open. She flips through hangers, searching for the outfit Vinny planned for me to wear down to the last detail. One by one, she withdraws each requested garment and sets them on a nearby chair. I strain my eyes in the weak daylight spilling in through the windows and observe each piece carefully: a skirt andthatsilk blouse... My stomach sinks.
There’s more to the outfit, however.
Frowning, the girl goes through the wardrobe twice, still searching. On the third pass, her hands shake with fear. “L-lace shawl?” she murmurs to herself. “I can’t...I can’t find it—”
“It had a hole in it,” I force myself to say, picturing the garment in question—a shawl custom-made for me by some well-known designer from Italy. “I threw it out.”
