“But he’s not the boss. He’s the underboss,” I argued pointlessly.

If Valentino was surprised by my knowledge of their infrastructure, he didn’t show it. “That’s right.” He smiled, revealing a glimpse of his teeth. “He deferred to me entirely shortly after our father’s death. He stepped back from his part in this role.”

“Why?” I gaped. If any of the five brothers fit the definition of a mob boss, it was Luca. Or so I’d have thought.

Valentino raised his hands, gesturing at the room and everything it encompassed: me, him, a black leather couch, my impending death. “Perhaps because of this. These kinds of maneuvers are particularly difficult to stomach.” He paused for a moment, ruminating on something. “Or,” he ventured, “perhaps he felt like he owed me.” He casually fanned his fingers toward his mangled leg, but his face flashed with something else. “In any case, Luca and I had always worked together in perfect harmony, until this situation came upon us. Of course, I argue with Nic all the time, so it’s no surprise we’ve had to keep him out of this, but this is the first time in my life that I have ever disagreed with my twin brother over anything. And the fact that it’s about the fate of a Gracewell girl he doesn’t even know is truly beyond me.”

I felt an unexpected heave in my chest.

“But I’m the boss,” Valentino surmised, the lyrical lilt of his voice veiling the bluntness of his statement. I got the sense he didn’t want the flicker of hope inside me growing any stronger.

“So the final decision rests with you,” I realized.

“It does,” he said solemnly. “And Luca will respect that.”

And just like that, the flicker died.

“Have you heard from my uncle?” I wished I could call Jack and tell him not to bother coming for me. If they were going to kill me anyway, the whole thing would be a trap.

“It’s difficult to persuade a drug baron, who is selfish by nature, to trade his life for another’s, even if that other is someone very dear to him. But I’m sure when he sees our video of you, he will understand the true gravity of the situation.”

“What video?”

Valentino dipped his head, turning from me. “Be brave for Calvino or he will go harder on you.”

He left, and I was alone again.

Sometime later, a door opened and closed behind me, and the sound of heavy footsteps punctuated the silence. A bald, stern-looking man with a thick black mustache stalked across the room. I remembered him from that day at the restaurant — Calvino.

He seated himself in Felice’s vacant armchair, contorting his angular features until they looked like prosthetics, and stared right through me.

“I saw you at the Eatery a few weeks ago,” I said, hoping that kindling a conversation might offer a way out of whatever he was planning to do to me. “You killed the bee.”

His smirk curled into a grimace. “And I’m still paying for it.” His voice was rasping and deep, and it occurred to me — however absurdly — that he might make a good radio announcer. If killing people didn’t work out, that is.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Much the same.” His expression darkened and he moved his stare back to the door behind me just as it swung open.

A boy of around twelve came to stand behind Calvino, resting his hand across his shoulder like some creepy family portrait setup. The boy was obviously his son. They shared pointy chins that jutted out below thin, pale lips and hooked noses that dominated their faces. Their eyes were dark with heavy lids, and, like all of the Falcones, they shared an olive complexion.

Calvino gestured at the boy, and in response he whipped out a phone — my phone — from his pocket.

“Hey!” I yelled, startling myself. They both turned to me, identical looks of surprise making their faces seem impossibly long. “That’s my phone, you little shit. Give it back.”

“No,” the boy hissed.

“C.J.,” his father cautioned him. “I said no talking to her.”

C.J. frowned. “Tell me when you want me to start recording,” he said to his father, clicking into the camera feature on my phone and making the flash on the back of it light up.

Of course. They were going to send the video to Jack from my own phone. Calvino stood and rolled up his black shirtsleeves until the end of a tattoo peeked out on his right bicep. Instinctively I pushed back against the couch and brought my legs higher in front of my huddled frame.

“Should I start now?” C.J. was hopping from foot to foot.

“Yeah.” Calvino whipped a knife out of his pocket and flicked the blade open. I recognized it as a Falcone switchblade — it was identical to Nic’s.

“Should he be witnessing this?” I gestured at his son as he moved toward me. “He’s just a kid.”

Calvino raised his thick eyebrows — they matched his caterpillar mustache perfectly. “He is a Falcone.”

He retained his shocked expression for five full seconds, as if to indicate that great offense had been taken at my question. I used the time to grapple against the couch; I brought my legs up until they blocked the rest of my torso, and tried to push myself over the top as the knife-wielding madman and his son moved toward me.

“Do you want to introduce it?” his son asked.

Calvino seemed surprised by C.J.’s apparent ingenuity. “Good idea.”