Page 123 of Unholy Union
He lets out a laugh, then he takes a menacing step closer, grabbing my chin. “You really want to know who I work for? I’m a contractor, sweetheart. That means I work for whoever’s willing to pay me. I don’t give a shit about oaths or loyalty or any of that old-school mafia honor-code garbage. I’ve done jobs for Don Spano, picked up work from Don Falco, even ran a job or two for your in-laws, the Valentes.”
He pauses long enough for his grin to widen as if savoring the moment.
“And yes,” he continues. “I’ve been paid plenty by good ol’ Daddy Don Corsini.”
A sharp, cold shiver streaks through me, paralyzing me even more than I already am.
“Still want to meet my boss, princess?” he asks, pulling back. “I’m sure he’d love to talk.”
I’m not even sure how to react or how to make sense of what he’s said, but I never get the chance to.
A third voice speaks first from the same shadows Mario had appeared from. The sound’s calm, raspy, and would be comfortingly familiar.
If not for the fact that I’m bound to a chair in an abandoned warehouse.
“Sabrina,” says Papi as he steps out of the dark shadows.
For a few seconds—maybe longer, maybe forever—I can’t bring myself to react. I simply stare at him as if I’m questioning whether he’s real.
Because he can’t be real.Thiscan’t be real.
The man standing in front of me is wearing my father’s face, but everything in my body revolts against the idea that it’s actually him. It makes absolutely no sense as I stare at him and try to process the fact he’s taken his place beside Mario Pompa, the same man who’s kidnapped me.
The same man who tried to murder me only a few weeks ago.
This can’t be my father, because Papi would never hire a man like this; he would never hire a contract killer and send him after me.
There’s just no way…
But he looks exactly like him—tailored suit, plump stature, polished shoes, with glasses that sit low on his round nose. Except the warmth I usually feel emanating from him, that sense of fatherly love and protection, is nowhere to be found now.
He comes across as cold and aloof. Almost like a stranger.
A cruel, vicious mafia don in every sense of the word.
My brain can’t reconcile this. My body doesn’t know how to either. My chest tightens, stomach clenching, fingers twitching uselessly against the restraints as if trying to pull me backward through time and out of this moment.
The pounding in my head grows louder, drowning out everything but my roaring blood.
I feel dizzy and disoriented. So confused and lost like never before.
Physically sick to the point the room starts to spin and I forget how to breathe.
He sighs as if recognizing how disturbed I am. As if it’s aninconvenienceto him in this moment, because now he must explain himself.
“Sabrina, my beautiful princess,” he says calmly. “You must believe me when I say this pains me more than it will ever pain you. But you must understand that this is what is necessary to win the war. This is what I must do to finally defeat the Valentes.”
My vision swims, my throat tightening as sickness rises up the passageway.
“Sacrifices have to be made,” he continues, crouching slightly to speak to me at eye level, like I’m a child again. We’re discussing a matter too complex for my little brain to grasp. “I protected you for many years. I held off on it for as long as I could... but it was time to go through with this. I had to use you against them. You should be proud you’re going to do this for me, princess. You’re going to give me this victory.”
His voice is gentle, the same tone he’s used with me so many times. It’s the same one I’ve always found comfort in.
It all becomes too much.
The nausea that’s been brewing finally surges upward, impossible to contain. I turn my head to the side and retch, vomiting onto the concrete floor. The acid scorches my throat, leaving it achy and sore.
Most of what comes up is bile. Just water and coffee since it’s all I’ve had so far today.
