Sweetest Sorrow Read online

  "So, uh…" Matty hesitated as he returned, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "How do you feel about Nevada?"

  "Nevada?"

  "Yeah, there's a place there… somewhere we can go. Maybe somewhere we can call home."

  Home. Genna liked the sound of that word.

  "Isn't there an Eiffel Tower there?" she asked. "In Las Vegas?"

  "Actually, yeah… it's about half the size of the real one. A lot bigger than this one."

  "Well then, I'd say Nevada feels like it just might be right."

  Chapter Four

  The bumpy dirt path cut through the overgrown land, barely wide enough for a vehicle to pass. Not far off the deserted highway stood an old two-story house. Genna stared at it in the darkness, taking in the chipped paint and splintered wood, railings torn apart and missing, leaving jagged spikes along the massive porch. Her stomach twisted in knots. She'd seen enough horror movies in her life to know when a place just wasn't right.

  And this place seemed about as wrong as it got.

  "I know we're not exactly on vacation here," Genna said, "but do we really have to reenact Cabin in The Woods?"

  Matty laughed quietly, although it wasn't exactly a happy sound. Exhaustion weighed down every part of him. Genna noticed it in his face and heard it in his voice. They'd been traveling for days, having to stop frequently thanks to Genna's morning sickness and incessant need to pee. Pregnancy, whee!

  "We're in the desert, so I wouldn't call this the woods," Matty said. "Besides, it's more of a ranch."

  "A ranch."

  "Yeah, or you know…" He waved toward it. "A plantation home or something."

  "Plantation home."

  "Yeah, so I wouldn't call it a cabin."

  Definitely not in Manhattan anymore.

  "Well, then, my mistake." Genna eyed the house in the dim moonlight. "Nothing horror movie-esque about a ranch, huh? Should've invested in some cattle when we were in Texas. Maybe get some horses. You know, you might look good in skin-tight Wranglers."

  Matty laughed again, this time lighter, as he reached over and cupped the back of her neck with his hand. His thumb stroked the skin absent-mindedly as he shook his head. "I don't think it's that kind of ranch."

  "What kind of ranch is it?"

  "The kind that keeps you isolated," he explained. "The kind that people hide out on."

  “It’s kind of sounding like Cabin in The Woods again."

  He smiled in her direction. "We'll be safe here."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  "Safer than we would be back in New York."

  It wasn't a 'yes', but it was close enough to it. She motioned toward the shabby house. "Well, then, what are we waiting for? Our ranch awaits."

  The place was already unlocked. Matty shoved against the wooden door, forcing it open, a blast of stuffy air hitting Genna right away. Her nose twitched at the stale odor, dust tickling her nostrils. She reached along the wall for a light switch, her stomach dropping when she found one and flicked it up.

  Nothing.

  She wasn't surprised by the lack of electricity, but damn if it wasn't disheartening. All she wanted was a long bath and some kind of air conditioning, but the odds of either option happening were slim to none.

  "Tomorrow," Matty said, lingering in the foyer of the house beside her, moonlight peeking in the open door behind them. "I'll make sure the power gets running then, I promise. I just have to make a few calls."

  "What even is this place?" Genna asked, looking around at what little she could decipher in the darkness. A clunky rotary phone sat on a wooden stand not far from her.

  "A safe house, I guess."

  She tensed. "One of the Barsantis?"

  "No," he said. "Not the Galantes, either."

  "So... neutral ground."

  He nodded. "Neutral ground."

  She didn't press him on that. He'd kept her safe before on neutral ground, and she had no choice but to trust him again. Besides, they were twenty-five hundred miles away from New York City, in the stifling desert in the middle of nowhere. Primo's reach was undoubtedly long, but Genna wasn't sure it was that long.

  "I'm going to look around," she said. "See what's here, you know… if there's anything."

  "I'll unload the car," Matty responded, lingering as he stared at her. "Make yourself at home."

  Once he finally turned, walking back out the front door, Genna set off through the house. Her footsteps were hesitant in the darkness, not wanting to trip over anything lying around. Old belongings were strewn throughout the place, hastily discarded, broken glass shoved along the sides of the hallways. No one had bothered cleaning up, but they'd cleared a path, which Genna was grateful for.

  In the kitchen, she opened a few drawers, shifting through the leftover contents. She found a heavy black-handled flashlight shoved in a cabinet and clicked the button to turn it on.

  Nothing happened.

  Scowling, she unscrewed the bottom of it, grimacing when a set of corroded batteries dropped out, hitting the floor by her feet. Gross.

  "Jesus, how old is this shit?" she grumbled, continuing her search. She found a matchbook in a drawer and snatched it up, squinting to make out the logo in the dim moonlight. The Flamingo Hotel & Casino. She held her breath, ripping a match out and striking it against the worn out strip on the back. It ignited, the flame sparking. "Ha!"

  "Ah, she discovered fire," Matty said, stepping into the kitchen and dropping their bags on the floor. "Taking it back to the Stone-Age."

  She shook the match out before it burned down too far, not wanting to singe her fingers. "Help me find some candles, Fred Flintstone. Maybe they don't have electricity, but even damn Buddhists have candles."

  "Amish," he corrected her.

  "What?"

  "I'm pretty sure you mean the Amish," he said. "Buddhists aren't opposed to candles, but a lot of monasteries use electricity and technology, so…"

  "Buddhist… Amish… really, what's the difference?"

  "Not touching that one."

  Genna scoured the kitchen some more as Matty disappeared, returning with a tall white candle in a glass jar, a religious votive with some faded Catholic painting on the front of it.

  "Mother Mary to the rescue," he said, playfully shaking it in her direction.

  Genna took it from him, blowing inside of it, gagging at the amount of dust that flew back out at her. She lit another match, holding it down into the candle, grateful it was just long enough to touch the wick, igniting it. The spark snap, crackle, and popped around the lingering dust, but the thing stayed lit, giving off enough light for her to see.

  "We should stick to the downstairs for tonight," Matty suggested.

  Genna had no plans to argue with him on that.

  Carrying the candle, she made her way through the downstairs. A dining room was adjacent to the kitchen, a splintered wooden table in the center of it, reminiscent of the one Genna's family sat at every night for dinner. Past that was the living room, more furniture there—a couch and two chairs, an old television that looked like it might've been black and white. Unbelievable. Knick-knacks sat around, also collecting dust, long ago abandoned, left behind like everything else.

  Genna had been to a few safe houses in her lifetime, places in the city her father secretly owned in obscure names, with little more than mattresses on the floor and a refrigerator in the corner, whatever they'd need to survive if they went into hiding for a few days. But this wasn't like any safe house Genna had ever encountered. Someone had once lived there. Someone had once called the place home.

  What happened to them? Where did they go?

  Who the hell were they?

  Matty plopped down on the end of the couch, sending dust flying that had settled into the cushions. Genna laughed as the cloud of it lingered around him. Smiling, Matty opened his arms to her as he stretched out, motioning for her to join him.

  She set the candle down on a small end table beside him before tuck
ing in at his side. The couch wasn't the most comfortable, springs poking her as she sunk into it, but she felt content as she settle into his embrace, her head against his chest. Even though it was sweltering, the air stuffy, her skin covered in sweat, she found comfort in Matty's warm.

  "We'll make the best of it," Matty said, kissing the top of her head. "You'll see… it'll all be okay."

  She wanted to believe that. She wanted to believe that as long as she had Matty, as long as they were together, they'd be happy. The world wouldn't be perfect, but they'd make the best of it, and it would be okay.

  Okay, because they had each other.

  Okay, because of the baby.

  Genna's hand drifted, resting against her stomach.

  No matter how terrified she was, she had to hold it together. She'd lost her family. Her brother was gone, but even without him, she had to go on. As painful as each breath was, as agonizing as each what-if seemed in her mind, she had to keep taking steps forward, one foot after the other. She couldn't stumble and fall. Because soon, there would be another little Galante in the world, one that would need her the way she always needed her brother. One that would depend on her for protection; one that would need her to keep them from harm. And protection was vital, just as harm was possible, because this new little Galante wouldn't be like the others. No, this new little Galante would be mixed with Barsanti, and nothing was more dangerous than that.

  "It'll be okay," she agreed, closing her eyes. "We'll be just fine."

  The moment Dante's ventilator was removed days later, the questions started, pelting him like machine gun fire. Rat-ta-tat-tat.

  Do you know where you are? Do you know your name? Do you know what day it is?

  Do you know where the hell you've been?

  Dante remained silent in the uncomfortable hospital bed, not answering a single thing thrown at him. He was groggy, in pain, and just plain annoyed by all of the damn questions. Tests were run. Drugs were pumped into his body before being taken back away. Just in case it was causing some reaction, some kind of dissociated response, in case it was making him mute, when they couldn't have that. No, not when they wanted their questions answered. Not when they needed something from him.

  First, it was the slew of medical doctors before finally, they sent a psychiatrist. A fucking shrink. He'd been off the ventilator for forty-eight hours, breathing steadily on his own, his vitals strong, when the guy in the white lab coat took up residence across the room, tossing out a brand new question: how are you feeling?

  How was he feeling? Dead.

  Inside of him was rotting, decomposing, every second that passed making rigor mortis set into his chest, seizing whatever had been left. Despite his head riddling out the truth, his heart had held on, waiting for a miracle. Every time the sliding door to his hospital room opened, hope flooded him. Maybe it was Genna. Maybe she'd shown up. Maybe she'd survived whatever had happened.

  What the hell had happened?

  He hadn't been brave enough to ask that question, not when everyone around him was pressuring him for their own answers. So many faces popping up in front of him, not a single one pleasant.

  No friends. No family.

  Even Nurse Russo had been off-duty.

  Or maybe she begged to be reassigned to get away from me.

  So he endured the interrogations in silence, not uttering a word, staring down at his hands folded in his lap.

  His eyes rose toward the psychiatrist, who sat there with a pen and a pad, ready to jot down whatever Dante said and assess whether or not he was out of his fucking mind.

  "How are you feeling?" the man repeated, eye contact making him think some sort of progress was being had, but it would be a cold day in Hell when Dante played this game with those people.

  Besides, it wouldn't have been smart to answer that.

  He felt like ripping someone apart, piece-by-piece.

  His gaze drifted back down to his hands.

  "If you don't want to start there, we can start elsewhere," the psychiatrist said. "How about you acknowledge you at least understand what I'm saying? All I need is a nod of the head."

  Dirt and dried blood was still caked beneath some of Dante's nails. He picked at it, wishing he could get out of that bed and shower, to wash off the filth, to purge some of the memories of what they'd done to him. Yeah, the doctors had let him breathe on his own, but everything else? Out of the question.

  He couldn't even get up to go take a piss.

  Fucking catheter rammed up his dick.

  Granted, getting up in itself seemed impossible, considering he couldn't feel his legs. They still worked, though. He knew, because he could wiggle his toes.

  Groaning, the shrink stood and stomped off. "This is pointless."

  Dante closed his eyes, relief washing over him once the door slid open. Peace surrounded him for a moment. He relished being alone—alone to wallow in grief—until a soft sigh echoed from nearby, startling him. His heart stalled a beat. He heard the hesitation on the machine. That ignorant hope flowed through him again.

  When he opened his eyes, it wasn't his sister's icy blue gaze that greeted him, though. It was Nurse Russo.

  She didn't stare at him like everyone else, with the revulsion he'd gotten from so many since waking up. No, her eyes were kind, albeit a little hesitant as they regarded him for the first time in two days. Last time she'd stepped in his room, he'd been indisposed, intubated. Now, he was just a stubborn asshole.

  He didn't sense fear in her, although she had to have riddled out by then what kind of man she was dealing with. Even stuck in that bed, Dante had heard the whispers, the staff out in the hallway talking about the thug in room twenty-two, tortured and almost killed by God-knows-who. But whatever, because he deserved it, right? Deserved it for being the kind of man who did the kind of things that invited those kinds of people into his life.

  Nurse Russo, though, treated him like he was any other guy.

  It felt almost like seeing a friend.

  Dante looked away from her as the hope faded, his heart hardening just a little bit more. He tried to shift position in bed, to get comfortable, but nothing he did made much of a difference.

  "It's the medication," the nurse said softly, watching him as he glared down at his feet, the sheet twitching as he willed the sons of bitches to move.

  Dante's eyes shifted to her. "I don't like it."

  His voice was scratchy and strained, the words painful. Side effect of having a tube crammed down your throat, he gathered. It was the first time he'd spoken in around her, and he could sense her surprise. Her dark eyes twinkled.

  "Ah, so you're not mute."

  Dante shook his head. "Just got nothing to say."

  The nurse went back to doing whatever she'd come to do, pressing buttons on the machines, but she wasn't done with the conversation. "I can understand why you don't like the numbness, but it's better than the alternative."

  "Which is?"

  "Pain."

  At the sound of that word, Dante laughed bitterly. He laughed. It didn't feel good, but he did it anyway. "A little pain never hurt anybody."

  A soft smile played on the nurse's lips. "You seem to be accustomed to it."

  Instinctively, Dante's hand drifted to his chest, the flimsy hospital gown covering the scars from his burns. He didn't make a habit of showing them off to people, but he knew the nurse had seen them. Everyone there probably had.

  He evaded mentioning it, brushing off her assumption. Pain, he was used to, but the numbness had to go. "So, what do I have to do to get out of this place? Pay someone? Sign something? Petition a fucking court?"

  This time, the nurse laughed. There was no humor in it, either. "Get out of here? I don't think you understand the severity of your injuries."

  "Oh, I understand," he said. "I was there when it happened."

  Before she could react, another voice cut through the room. "And what, exactly, would 'it' be, Mr. Galante?"

  The so
und was like sharp claws ripping away at Dante's calm. He knew that nagging voice, the grating, mousy tone, the sarcastic edge that screamed 'look at me, I'm an asshole!' His gaze turned to the doorway, to man clad in a cheap gray suit. He was a small guy, five and a half feet, a hundred pounds soaking wet, middle-aged with deep red hair and a thick moustache covering his lip. The guy, this squeaky little son of a bitch, reminded Dante of a hamster.

  Practically a fucking rat, as it was.

  Detective Bryan Tracey, with NYPD's Organized Crime Investigations Division. Detective Dick.

  They'd had their fair share of run-ins over the years, a few useless conversations, where the detective hammered him with questions that he knew damn well Dante had no intention of answering.

  Nurse Russo mumbled, "I can give you some privacy."

  "Don't bother," Dante said. "I have nothing to say to him."

  "It's fine," the detective said. "Continue what you were doing."

  The nurse hesitated before going back to her work.

  Detective Tracey lingered near the doorway, not coming any closer. "I've got to say, Galante, I honestly thought I'd never see you again."

  "Hate to disappoint."

  "Ah, I'd hardly say I'm disappointed," the detective said. "Multiple broken ribs, lacerated spleen, punctured lung, bruised kidney... not to mention the stab wounds. They say you were beaten from head-to-toe, severely dehydrated, practically starved. So instead of disappointed, let's go with surprised… surprised you're alive when someone wanted you dead."

  "They wanted me to suffer," Dante corrected him. "There's a difference."

  "Is there?"

  Dante didn't humor him with a response to that question. Of course there was a difference. Sometimes surviving was the worst thing that could happen to someone.

  The detective strolled closer. "Who did this to you?"

  "I don't know."

  "Where'd they keep you?"

  "I don't know."

  "Why'd they do it?"

  "I don't know."

  "Cut the bullshit, Galante… just tell me the truth."

  Dante remained silent.

  That was his right, after all.

  "Look, I know what you're thinking, but this isn't the time for it," the detective continued. "You can't go back out onto those streets looking for revenge. I'm not a fool. I can make an educated guess about who's to blame, and I know you'll want them to pay for it. But at some point you have to break the cycle, and I suggest you do it now, before it's too late."