ONE

September 1924

“Let me go! Please! Let me go!” Maria implored through the thick, mahogany paneling. Her voice was getting hoarse and weak, but she refused to quiet even though pleading the better part of nine hours had done little to change her circumstances. Her situation seemed as dire as her voice was raspy. She twisted the doorknob for the hundredth time. Locked. Why she continually assumed, hour after hour, that it would be suddenly unlocked, she could only attribute to the glimmer of hope still firing in the far reaches of her brain. Another part of her brain, less hopeful and full of gloom, taunted that this door would remain locked until her captors came for her, or until she died—from her forced isolation. For it to open before then would take a miracle, which seemed to be in short supply. She pressed an ear to the wood, cooled by the wind blowing through her open window. It was a cold wind for a summer night, and she shivered, tugging her woolen blanket more snugly about her shoulders. She sniffled and laid her head against the cool paneling. “Please, won’t someone help me?” The whispered entreaty would tug at the hardest of hearts, had anyone with a heart been listening, but there was no one listening but her captors, whose voices, faint and uncomprehending, registered through the thick mahogany paneling of her door. She wasn’t confident they heard her at all because they seemed oblivious to her appeals; or if they did hear they chose to conveniently to ignore her entreaties, confirming in her mind that they were heartless. Since she heard their muted whispering, she knew someone was there. Hearing them should have raised that glimmer of hope in her heart; reassured her that she was not alone; yet she could have been buried beneath the earth for all the comfort those whispers provided. She shivered and reached for the doorknob again, stopping midway, a sob of frustration escaping as her hand fell to her side. A momentary surge of anger shot through her, and she lifted her hand, banging against the paneling, but could not find the strength of voice to rail at those standing on the other side. Tears trailed down her cheeks and she stopped her attempts to gain attention, her mind reminding her of the futility of her actions. She sniffed again, and then pressed an ear against the door, straining to hear the hushed discussion and yet afraid of what that exchange would reveal. The whispered tones scared her. She was scared now more than last night when horrible events resulted in her imprisoned state. An inmate in her own bedroom, held under lock and key by her own father. She was scared now more than when she was nine and the bogeyman came to her in the dead of night and stole her innocence. More scared because escape was out of reach and her fate was unknown. She glanced at the open window. Her bedroom was on the fifth floor, yet freedom beckoned through that portal, and she longed to answer the silent invitation, as if compelled by an unseen force promising an escape that seemed unattainable. She leaned against the door and slid to stand upon shaky legs. She closed her eyes as she felt the blood flow back into legs unused for the past nine hours, bent beneath her as if in continual prayer; then quickly sank to the ground again as the tingling in her extremities shot painfully from her ankle to her hip. Wincing as the pain intensified, then sighing as it slowly began to subside. When she was confident that she could move again, she stood and shuffled closer to the window and breathed in the heady scent of liberation, tears of sorrow escaping from her eyes. Insanely, she envied those tears, for though the journey was short-lived, those droplets were free to leave their confines and slip away. Her reason and sanity returned when she gazed down at the greenery far below. If she heeded the silent call and leapt, her fate would be undecided no more—she would be dead. Still, she had to decide whether death would be such a terrible end. Somehow, it seemed a better alternative to what awaited her at the hands of her own family. The voices outside her door rose ever so slightly, drawing her away from the window and back toward the door. She stumbled over a brown and gray bunny—a gift from her father when she was eight. An appeasement for the innocence he stole from her. She picked it up and squeezed it tight, tears of fear and anguish nearly overwhelming her. How could a man, who’d told her he loved her, every single day for eighteen years of living, suddenly turn so brutally against her? Had not he also been just as loving with her mother, lavishing gifts on his childhood sweetheart—turned wife, and mother? Did his professions of love truly mean so little? Then her mind registered something that shot even greater pain through her heart—his love had always been brutal. For her mother, however, that brutality had been taken to the extreme, but it was she who was now suffering as a result. She dropped the bunny and stumbled the remainder of the way to the door, her legs giving way in despair as she leaned against the paneling, “Please!” She croaked as loudly as able. “Please, don’t do this to me!” She forced herself to go quiet and pressed her ear against the door. Perhaps her fear would be lessened if she knew what fate held in store. The voices were so close now, she could just make out words being spoken, and her heart froze. “If only she’d stayed in her room after the evening meal, then we would not be having this discussion.” She recognized her father’s voice, but to whom was he talking—one of his button men[1]? Perhaps the same goon who’d carried away her mother’s body. Oh, how she wished she had remained in her room, and remained ignorant of what had happened. In the hallway outside her door, Arthur Bartonelli breathed heavily, relieved that the pleas of his daughter echoing faintly from behind her door had ceased. He could ill afford to heed her implorations, any more than he could have his wife’s pleas. Sympathy he reserved for friends and family, not traitors and enemies. He shook his head at his mental suggestion that Maria was a traitor or his enemy. She wasn’t, but she was something just as detrimental to his security—a witness. He kept his voice elevated and his gaze averted, as if being unable to see the door, or hear her voice, would help shut out the mental image of his daughter, crying and begging on the other side. He’d have already taken care of the unpleasantness, had his son not intervened. Lorenzo Bartonelli glanced from the door to his father and fought against the urge to flinch. His father’s gaze, ever cold and hard, seemed even more so now. As a child, that gaze had terrified him, and still made him nervous on occasion, even though he was a man full grown and had never had a hand raised in discipline against him. He realized, early on, that being an only son, and heir to his father’s enterprises, was advantageous, so he had no reason to fear his father’s temperamental reprisals. Still, his father had never harmed his mother or sister either, that he was aware of—until now. Lorenzo closed his eyes briefly to the unwanted image—that of his own wife and newborn son. If his father had finally lost his grip on his mental well-being, could he lash out and harm them should he push this particular issue too far? He’d never been on the receiving end of his father’s retribution, but that could change swiftly if stood in the way of the reprisal of his sister. As much as he loved Maria, he loved his newborn son more; and he would never forgive himself if anything ever happened to his precious Rebecca and sole heir, Dante, should Arthur ever suspect any of them of being disloyal. Lorenzo sighed heavily in his mind. How was he going to explain Maria’s disappearance to Becca? They were such dear friends, even though nearly ten years separated them in age. What was he to do? He couldn’t tell Becca the truth without jeopardizing her life, but knew he needed to think of something in order to save Maria and simultaneously protect Becca and Dante. He felt a guilt weigh heavy in his heart that he was hesitant to save his sister if it meant endangering his own loved ones. Compounding that guilt was the lack of tears over the loss of his mother. Why did the actions of his father against his mother and sister not faze him as thoughts of harm to his own family? Had what they had done really been so heinous as to warrant the drastic measures being meted? Perhaps his mother’s act had, but Maria? Lorenzo looked into his father’s eyes again. Even though his gaze was austere, it was easy for him to see that his father was weary and unhappy over the latest turn of events. Did that tired sadness stem from love or just lack of sleep? It was true that the greatly feared head of the Bartonelli family was growing old, and in this, the wee early morning hour, it showed. It had been a long night of unpleasantness. Now, it appeared it would become an even longer day. Arthur had swept away one disastrous disagreeable incident in the night, only to have another rear its ugly head. Only his sister, Maria, was not ugly. She was a beautiful disaster, but a disaster none-the-less in his father’s eyes and he feared, that he would deal with Maria harshly as his father tended to deal with all disasters that stood in his way. “I understand, Father, that it isn’t great for Maria to have seen what she did—” “Has the other been taken care of?” “Frank and Carlos came over early this morning and took care of things. They suggested it might be better for all involved if they made a return trip for Maria.” [1] Button man: ‘20s slang for hired killer