Page 96 of Trapped

Kill greeted us at the door.

He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, his dark hair messy and falling over his eyes. Family photos added a splash of color to the black-and-white palette of the house. A buttery scent wafted through the air.

Violet bustled from the kitchen and grabbed me in a hug. “Come on in, make yourselves comfortable. We’re about to play UNO.”

In the living room, I spotted two of Santino’s sisters with Jack. He was deeply engrossed in his game of stacking blocks. Santino ruffled the boy’s hair.

Jack looked up and grinned. “Uncle Sonny! Are you playing cards with us?”

“Absolutely, buddy,” Santino replied.

We settled around the dining table. Kill took his place while Violet handed out the cards with a gleam of excitement in her eyes.

“Alright, folks,” she announced with a playful grin. “The rules are simple. Loser has to eat from the Bean Boozled jelly bean tin.”

Santino groaned.

I raised an eyebrow, curious.

“Oh, you’ll see,” Violet said, her eyes twinkling.

The game quickly turned raucous, laughter and teasing filling the room. It was clear this was a tradition for them, a way to unwind and enjoy each other’s company. I found myself relaxing, caught up in the absurdity of the game.

As the rounds went on, the Bean Boozled tin became a source of both dread and hilarity. The jelly beans ranged from delicious to downright disgusting, with flavors like “Stinky Socks” and “Rotten Egg.” Each time someone lost, there was a collective groan and a burst of laughter as they ate the awful flavors.

Violet slid the tin toward me. “You’re up!”

I hesitated, eyeing the colorful beans warily. “Do I have to?”

“It’s a family tradition,” Santino teased.

Sighing, I reached into the tin and picked a bean. The moment I bit into it, a wave of nausea hit me. It was “Dead Fish,” and it was every bit as terrible as it sounded. I made a face as everyone laughed.

I gagged.

Santino patted my back. “You alright?”

I nodded, cringing. My stomach churned. As the game continued, I couldn’t shake the queasiness. It had to be the stress of everything that had happened recently.

Like Luca.

I couldn’t shake the image of Santino’s grief when he looked at the photograph. He had no idea who Luca really was. How could I tell him the truth? How could I break the news that his cousin, the boy he still mourned, had grown up under the thumb of the Bratva? And more importantly, why hadn’t Luca ever told me about his past? Why hadn’t he escaped?

Memories of our childhood flashed—cold nights in Providence, huddled together, passing a bottle back and forth, trying to escape our demons. We had been close, yet he’d hidden a huge part of himself from me.

I needed to tell Santino, but the timing had to be right. The alliance with my family was on shaky ground, primed to blow up at any second. Santino had a right to know, and the longer I waited, the worse it would be. I grabbed my phone and disappeared to the bathroom, bringing up Luca’s number. My finger hovered over the call button.

I pressed the button and brought the phone to my ear.

The line rang once, twice, and went to voicemail.

Luca wouldn’t return my calls. I couldn’t get ahold of him, and I was losing my mind. My stomach roiled from keeping the secret. But I needed more proof before I told them anything.

The next morning, I combed through Santino’s photo albums. I pored over pictures and agonized over faces that might be Luca. After an hour of this, Santino strolled into the living room, where I’d laid out the books.

He sank onto the couch with a wry grin. “Writing an autobiography about my life?”

“Something like that.”

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