I open the bedroom door. The hinges creak, and I stand there like a doe in headlights waiting to see if I’m about to be Papa’s next victim.
“What do you mean his truck is just outside our front gates?” Papa screams at Marco from down the hall.
Marco is a few years older than me, but he wears his age well. He’s tall and brooding with a thick head of luscious jet-black hair.
Sometimes I want to run my fingers through it, but I don’t get the impression that he’s interested in me.
Is it because Papa is his boss?
It’s a game.
Toeing the line of what is and isn’t allowed.
I’ve kissed him in the back of the hall closet and given him a blow job in the kitchen before everyone was awake.
That was when I had been in high school, and he’d pushed me down onto my knees, demanding I do as he said.
My stomach somersaults at the memory.
Four years away from the castle, and I’m a different girl. I’m no longer Nicole. I’m Nikki.
Nicole would never have stolen the truck.
Maybe four years wasn’t long enough to rid my identity. I’m no different from the men downstairs. Stealing. Thieving.
Although I haven’t murdered anyone yet.
I can’t say the same about Marco. And I know Papa has killed many men in his day. I’ve witnessed the brutal atrocities in the dungeon where I didn’t belong.
“And get the damned internet up and running!” Papa shouts.
“I’ve already called the cable company. They are sending someone out this morning,” Marco says.
Since when did he get promoted to errand boy?
I sneak past the yelling and screaming and hurry with light invisible footsteps to the kitchen.
My stomach grumbles, and I think it might give my position away, but no one seems to notice or care.
* * *
After breakfast, I pack a bag and grab my backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. I take it with me to Papa’s office.
Papa is still having a heated conversation with Marco, and this time Vance, his second, has joined in whatever discussions they are having.
I hear bits and pieces as I walk by. “War…turf…Ricci.”
Some things never change. The DeLuca and Ricci family have always been at war with one another for as long as I can remember.
Doesn’t matter the city or the year. The war continues.
I sneak into Papa’s office and slip inside when I see a boy who doesn’t even look old enough to drink standing on a step stool messing with the drop-down ceiling.
He clears his throat. “Almost done here, Ma’am.”
My eyes scour over his outfit. His shirt identifies the cable company that he works for, and he appears genuinely nervous.
“The router appears to have short-circuited. I’ve replaced it with our newest model that gets better range than the previous edition and wired it through the ceiling to get—”