Page 111 of Sinner's Vows

“Chi è?” comes a gruff voice, still sleepy.

I indicate to my friend who claims he knows Antonio Mancuso.

“Nino,” the man calls through the door. “Nino Mancuso? Sono Paolo C, vengo con notizie di tuo nipote.”

It’s Paulo, I come with news of your nephew.That should tickle the old man, if he still had time for Franco.

Feet shuffle to the door, and when the man swings it open, I have to lean away from the stench emanating from the house.

Fuck. This guy let himself go. And he is hungover. But there’s more. His one eye is rudely stitched closed where he must have lost it, a nasty scar running from his brow to his nose where he seemed to have patched up his nostril. Maybe he wasn’t such a good knife thrower, after all. He hasn’t shaved in days, thick grey beard sprouting in patches on his chin and jaw.

He’s dressed in an old-man’s vest that was once white, and sleep shorts, thin legs protruding like sticks out of their wide holes. His toenails are long and yellowed, speaking of neglect, and his back is curved in age. This guy looks like he’s knocking hard on ninety and regrets making it this far.

There’s more, though. He has the same gaunt look the Don had in the last months of his illness. Shit, he’s dying.

“Antonio Mancuso,” I say as I step into the house, and the man shuffles to the side as if he knows he shouldn’t even tryto stop me. I switch over to Italian for his sake, although I bet if I wring that throat just right, he’d start speaking English just perfectly. I take the room in with one sweep of my gaze. The machete Ariana warned me about hangs on an opposite wall, right by the front door. A gun lies on a side table, but nothing more.

As I take in the space, I nod to the stairs, and Gus takes them two at a time to make sure we’re alone.

“And who are you?” the old man croaks, his rotting breath hitting me in the face. “Which nephew?”

“Dominic Scalera. I don’t know your nephews,” I lie. “I’m here to enquire about the whereabouts of a girl that came through this house fifteen years ago. Gabriella Scalera. She came from America.”

The old man cackles, and it goes over into a coughing fit.

“Now-now,” I say as I grip him by the shoulder, firmly in warning, but also to keep him from keeling over. I’m repulsed at the dirt crusting his skin, the oily feel of his foul-smelling vest under my palm. “You can’t die on me now, old man.”

“Gabriella, Isabella, Anabella, Amar, Petra, so many.” He drags in a ragged breath. “How do people expect me to remember all these girls? Too fucking many. Nobody cares. All whores.”

I don’t like to lose my shit with this guy, not yet, but he mustn’t push me. I shift my hand from his boney shoulder to the thin skin of his neck. He doesn’t fight me. He might be hungover, but he’s been conditioned to know his place.

“I’d think a bit harder if I were you.” I put pressure just there, where the blood flow to his face will thin. “Gabriella Scalera. Gabi. Fifteen years ago. A girl named Emilia Korhonen was still living here.”

“Emilia? That fucking little thief. She’s dead.”

I put more pressure on his neck, and now he grapples with my hand with both of his as his eyes go wide. I’m so much taller than him, in the prime of my life—it would be nothing to take him out. I step on his foot, and he stills as the pain registers. Fear flashes through his eyes.

“Indeed. Emilia Korhonen is dead, but she remembers Gabi, though.” Nothing like fucking with an old man’s head. “Gabi was here for maybe a week, and then disappeared.”

Antonio blinks, and I know something triggered him to remember.

“Gabi,” he croaks. “From America. Emilio Randazzo’s other daughter.”

“That’s the one. See, I knew you knew something. Now where is she?”

“With Randazzo dead, she could be anywhere.”

Prickles chase down my spine. If we’re too fucking late, I’m going to have to kill somebody to avenge Gabriella’s death.

“Where did she go when she left your shit hole?”

At this, the man croaks some cackles again, but I cut it off with my thumb.

“The convent,” he groans, and I release the pressure a bit. “The convent in Potenza.”

“Are you sure about that?” I ask with another squeeze. “The convent in Potenza?” Fuck knows where that is and where she went after that.

“Yes, yes, Potenza. Randazzo kept her there, locked up with the religious sisters, to use, you know, when the time was right.”

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