The air in the mansion hangs heavy with dust and decay. Halloween feels especially potent here—like there may be real ghosts lingering in the stillness.
I stand in the darkness of the front parlor with its cobwebs and dusty tarp-covered furniture and stare out the window, waiting.
Minutes tick by like hours. At precisely 10:58 PM, red and blue lights flash briefly outside before going dark. A pair of headlights sweeps across the room through the dirty windows. A car door slams.
Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I position myself near the grand staircase and duck into the shadows. Invisible from the entrance and far enough away to run if needed.
The front door creaks open, sending chills down my spine.
“Wifey,” Marco appears in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the full moon. Even from where I’m hidden, I can see the cruel smile stretching across his face. "Where are you, my naughty wifey?"
"Trick or treat, wifey." He chuckles, the sound like fingernails on a chalkboard as his words echo through the empty foyer, dripping with a creepy false sweetness. I press myself against the wall, waiting.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are." His voice gets closer. "Trick or treat."
The sound of a gun barrel being cocked slices through the silence.
"Trick, motherfucker.” Marco freezes as Hawk materializes behind him, pressing the muzzle to his temple. "It was a trick,” Hawk growls, his voice deadly calm.
Marco's hand inches toward his holster, but Saint and Blade emerge from the shadows, their own weapons drawn.
"I wouldn't," Saint warns, his usual charm replaced by cold menace.
Marco's eyes dart wildly around the room before landing on me. "You stupid bitch."
Rage bubbles up inside me—rage for the bruises he left on my body, for the fear he planted in my heart, for the life he tried to steal from me. Before I can think, I cross the room and drive my knee into his groin with every ounce of strength I possess.
Marco doubles over with a strangled yelp.
Hawk chuckles approvingly. "That's my girl," he says, pride evident in his voice as he yanks Marco upright.
"You can't do this," Marco gasps, his face contorted with pain. “I’ll have you locked up for this."
“We’re quaking in our boots,” Blade deadpans.
“I am a decorated homicide detective,” Marco chokes out, clearly still hurting from my knee. “You boys are facing decades in the slammer for this.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Saint shoves him forward. “Time to reunite you with your buddy Carducci.”
They drag Marco toward the dining room, his curses echoing through the empty house. Hawk turns to me, his expression softening slightly.
"Wait here, little sparrow. You don't want to see this."
I nod, understanding what comes next. "I'll be in here."
As they disappear down the hallway to where they already have my Uncle Vincent bound and gagged, I sink onto a dusty tarp-covered chair, trying to block out the sounds that follow—the thud of fists hitting flesh, grunts of pain, shouted questions, and broken confessions.
Despite my promise to remain out here, I find myself creeping closer, drawn by some need to hear the truth spoken aloud.
"Russo wanted your niece as payment," Hawk continues, presumably addressing Vincent. "Payment for covering up what you did to my family."
Uncle Vincent's voice, weaker than I remember it, drifts through the doorway. “He’s been obsessed with her since she was a child. Wanted me to give her to him when she was eight years old. Eight! Even I couldn't stomach that."
I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to scream—or to vomit.
"Fuck you," Marco spits.
A sickening crack followed by a howl of pain.
