“You are probably wondering what you are doing here,” he said, his tone serious. “I will level with you—I do not wish to hurt you, but I will if you make me, so I am asking for cooperation. I know you have fight in you, considering you have twice scarred my son.”

She gaped at him as he motioned toward Nunzio. Son?

“I should explain,” he said. “I am Ivan Volkov, and I have been acquainted with the DeMarcos for many years. Vincent was a child the first time we met. He was a pretentious prick, much like I hear his youngest is.”

He laughed, as did Nunzio, and Haven felt tears forming at the mention of Carmine.

“Did I strike a nerve, Principessa?” he asked. “I hear you care for the boy. It would be a pity if something happened to him, so let us hope it does not come to that.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t . . .”

“I do not wish to hurt him. If it helps, I have not heard of his death, so he is probably fine.”

His voice taunted her. She tried to fight back tears, but it was too much to take.

“Aw, do not cry.” He reached toward her but she recoiled. He dropped his hand without touching her. “Where was I?”

“You were talking about how much of a prick Vincent was,” Nunzio said.

“Ah, yes. This was before he met his wife, of course. Shame what happened to her. I suppose I should feel guilty, but it was her fault.” He shook his head. “Meddling bitch.”

“You? You did it?”

“You can say I conducted that beautiful symphony.”

“I don’t understand,” Haven said. “What do I have to do with any of this?”

“You have the power to bring down the enemy, and that is what you are going to do.”

She tensed, Carmine’s words from weeks before hitting her again. I was born with enemies. My last name alone gives me more than I could ever earn.

“I have laid the groundwork around Chicago, taking over businesses,” he continued. “We have wiped out the competition, except for the Italians. People are loyal to them, and they have proven to be strong. I do not like being told where I can go and what I can do. I have found little ways in and turned a few, but I need something bigger, someone higher up. I need to crack the leadership, and Nunzy created a rift. They have held themselves together, but it is different now. Now I have you.”

“Me? But I’m just . . . I’m no one.”

“Oh, you are definitely someone,” he insisted. “You are my golden ticket. If I kidnapped the DeMarco boy, the Italians would come with guns blazing, but you are trickier. Salvatore will be happy to have you gone, the complication removed, but the others will not give up. There is nothing I enjoy more than seeing them fight. And when the DeMarco boy demands action, someone will spill the truth about who you are, thinking it will make Salvatore want to help.”

Ivan laughed long and hard, as if that were the funniest thing he had ever heard.

“Who am I?” She immediately regretted the question, but it was too late to take it back.

“I have been trying to tell you. You are the buried treasure, the one Salvatore thought would never be found, but I have dug you up.” He reached out, his calloused finger drawing an X on her forehead. “When the dust settles and they have killed one another, everything will be mine for the taking . . . including you.”

He stood and turned to the blond-haired woman. “Get her some water and something to eat, Natalia. Let her rest. You and your brother are on watch tonight.”

Haven sat as still as possible, her eyes vigilantly darting around the room as everyone filtered out, leaving her and Nunzio alone. He strolled to her and knelt down, placing his hand on her knee.

She fought back a shudder as his hand roamed up her leg and came to rest on her thigh. He squeezed tightly, his fingers digging into her flesh, and she cringed as he pulled himself up. Leaning over, he paused with his mouth next to her ear. “Miss me?”

A chill shot down her spine when his tongue swirled around her earlobe. Panicking, she shoved him. He stumbled a few steps, and before he could react, she pulled her leg up and slammed it into his crotch. He hunched over as she jumped up, her vision blurring from the sudden movement. She sprinted for the metal door across the room, but barely made it halfway there when he grabbed her from behind.

“I like it when you fight,” Nunzio said breathlessly. She cried for help as he dragged her across the room, grabbing a roll of duct tape from the card table.

She shook her head at the sight of it. “No!”

He smirked. “Yes.”

She tried to move past him, shoving him again, but he grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. Pain ripped up her shoulder with such intensity that everything went black. He threw her on the mattress and straddled her.

Her brittle fingernails caught on his skin as she grasped at his face, pulling his bandage off and ripping the stitches underneath. Blood gushed from the wound, running down her arm.

Raising his fist, Nunzio slammed it into her face. Stars danced before her eyes. He tore off a piece of duct tape to cover her mouth. After muffling her cries, he jerked her onto her stomach. Pain radiated through her body as he forced her arms behind her, binding her hands and ankles together. He wiped his cheek, bringing his hand up to eye the blood, before storming outside.

Natalia returned with a bag of food and sat down on the mattress beside her. She unbound her and gently pulled the duct tape from Haven’s mouth, feeding her until Haven turned away. Sickness churned in her stomach as Natalia patted her head. “You should not anger him. It isn’t smart.”

Eventually, Haven passed out from exhaustion, only to awaken later to Ivan kneeling in front of her. “I thought you were going to play nice, Principessa.”

“I, uh, he was going to—”

“I do not need excuses,” he said. “I need cooperation.”

Before she could speak again, he jabbed her with a needle. “It will be easier this way.”

The holding cells at Cook County Jail are overcrowded bullpens of chain-link fence, the sour, putrid smell inside strong enough to singe nose hair. Carmine sat in the corner of one with his head down, surrounded by dozens of murderers, druggies, and thieves. People bickered, scuffles breaking out between rival detainees. On edge, he tried to maintain his strength, but he was dangerously close to cracking.

It was after nightfall when they booked him into the system. He was taken to a small room where he sat across from a lady who asked a lot of questions he had no desire to answer. He humored her with the basics, like his name and date of birth, but when she asked how he felt or if he was suicidal, he remained silent.

The love of his life was missing and his ability to help was gone. Instead of being out there, searching, he was trapped in a room with this nosy bitch asking him if he felt angry. Of course he was angry. Wasn’t he supposed to be?

They gave up and ordered him out, writing an identification number on his arm in permanent marker before fingerprinting him and taking mug shots. He stared at the number the whole time, feeling sick at the sight of it. They had stripped him of his name. He was now number 2006-0903201.

An intake officer photographed Carmine’s tattoos as he continued to glare at the number. “Are you affiliated with any gangs?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? LCN counts as a gang.”

“LCN?”

“You know, the Mafia?”

Carmine cut his eyes to him. “There is no Mafia.”

The officer wrote something in his file before sending Carmine to be strip searched. By the time he put on that orange jumpsuit for protective custody, he felt like he had been thoroughly fucked.

They took him to division nine, placing him in a small cell on the top tier. It was closed in and suffocating, no bars or windows to the outside. The green paint on the thick metal door flaked, words scratched into it. He had nothing but a light and a threadbare blanket, the mattress no thicker than egg crate foam.

Hours slipped by while Carmine lay there, staring at the ceiling. Inmates yelled around him, sirens going off as guards ran by the door. He barely slept, tossing and turning in agony all night.

The next morning they came by with a breakfast tray, but he refused to eat their food, demanding they get him a lawyer. The same thing happened with lunch—he ignored their food, and they ignored his questions. He was infuriated by the time dinner rolled around, utterly exhausted and frantically pacing the cell. He heard someone walking up and expected another tray to be shoved inside but was surprised when two correctional officers unlocked his door.

“You have a visitor,” one of them said, handcuffing and shackling him before leading him to a small holding room. A hefty balding man sat inside at a table, a briefcase open in front of him. He looked up when Carmine entered and motioned for him to sit. The corrections officer secured Carmine before leaving them alone.

“My name’s Rocco Borza, attorney at law. Celia Moretti contacted me about you.” He pulled out some paperwork, sliding it across the table to Carmine along with a pen. “I need you to sign this, agreeing to let me handle your case, and anything you say is confidential.”

Carmine scanned the papers and awkwardly signed the lines the best he could with his restraints, before sliding them back.

“First of all, I need to know if you’ve spoken to anyone,” he said, slipping the papers into his briefcase. “Have they attempted to interrogate you?”

“No,” he said. “They haven’t even explained why I’m here.”

“They charged you with possessing a fraudulent government document,” he said. “It’s a class-four felony but can easily be knocked down to a misdemeanor. You should’ve been given a probable cause hearing within a few hours and been released on bail.”

“Then why am I sitting in that damn cell?”

“They can detain you for a reasonable amount of time,” he said. “But truthfully? You’re there because you’re the son of Vincenzo Roman DeMarco, the nephew of Corrado Alphonse Moretti, and the godson of Salvatore Gerardo Capozzi. You don’t get much more notorious than that.”

“That’s fucked up,” Carmine said. “I have nothing to do with their business.”

“Guilty by association,” he said. “Having you released is my number one priority right now. Lucky for you, it shouldn’t be more than a few days.”

“Days? I’m supposed to stay in this place for days?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I’ll request a hearing, but it’ll take time to get in front of a judge.”

Mr. Borza walked out as the corrections officer patted Carmine down before escorting him to his cell, where a tray of food awaited him. He conceded to hunger, grabbing the container of pudding and sitting on the lumpy bed.

The second day of Carmine’s incarceration passed similar to the first. Sometime in the evening, an officer came by to tell him he had another visitor. Relief washed through him, as he figured Mr. Borza had news, but the familiar man waiting was clearly not his lawyer.