Trapped (Sinners of Boston #5)

31. Delilah

THIRTY-ONE

DELILAH

He’s alive .

I couldn’t believe it.

The boy Santino mourned was the same boy I grew up with in Providence. Luca—my childhood friend—had somehow been raised in the Bratva. I recognized him immediately in Santino’s photo.

It had to be him.

An Italian in a Russian family stuck out, especially with dark hair and permanently tanned skin. No one on Dad’s side had those features. They all had the stereotypical Slavic look—blonde or light brown hair and pale skin. I’d inherited my brunette waves from my mother. It was implied Luca had been adopted. I’d never asked for an explanation, and nobody had offered one.

I stopped asking questions about anything that happened in my house after third grade. Two of my uncles dragged a man I’d never seen—who was covered in blood—into the formal dining room and laid him over the table. They shut the doors, and I heard strange noises all afternoon. I stopped my dad outside the dining room and asked what they were doing to him. He told me to keep my mouth shut and never ask questions. When I defied him by asking again, he introduced my face to the back of his hand.

So I didn’t think twice when Dad introduced me to Luca when I was ten. It was during one of his many attempts to smooth over the fractured lines of our family with displays of wealth. Throughout the years, Luca kept to himself, lurking in the shadows at gatherings, much like I did.

One winter, we sat on the icy steps outside my father’s mansion during Christmas and passed a stolen bottle of vodka back and forth, the alcohol burning our throats as we chased away the loneliness. Luca, even then, wrestled with demons I didn’t understand, and he never spoke of his family.

Why not?

Every Sunday was family night.

Santino’s youngest brother, Kill, lived in a cozy, suburban home. We pulled up to the triple-decker, the front yard scattered with toys, a tricycle, and a small basketball hoop.

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.”

He cocked his head. “What are you up to?”

I stabbed at a photograph. “Who are the people in this picture?”

He leaned over. “No idea.”

I frowned, pointing at another. “This one?”

He shrugged. “The neighbor’s kid.”

“Are you sure?”

“It was a million years ago.” His smile widened when I sank back onto the couch. “Why do you care?”

“I’m just trying to get to know you.”

Santino’s gaze sharpened, but then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to dig through old photos for that. Just ask.”

“I like visuals. It helps me connect the dots.”

Santino flipped through a page, chuckling. “I haven’t looked at these in a while. Jack looks just like my brother. Unreal.”

I leaned into him. “Is that Luca?”

He tapped another face. “No, that’s him.”

I examined the picture, but I couldn’t say he was a dead ringer for the adult version. “Can you show me more photos of him?”

Santino hesitated and pointed to three boys opening presents under a tree. I squinted, trying to determine if he had a birthmark under his eye.

His smile faded as he reached the end of the album. Then he closed the cover and seemed to realize I had more of them underneath. He gave me a strange look. Finally, he let out a huge sigh.

“There’s something you should know.”

I clutched my hands, waiting.

Santino’s eyes never wavered from mine. “The fire that killed my aunt, uncle, and cousin? It was orchestrated by the Romanovs. Luca was caught in the crossfire of a long feud between our families.”

The ground fell away beneath me. I felt sick, the room spinning around me. My family had done this?

“Why would they do something like that?” I whispered.

“Years ago, the Romanovs were in Boston. There was a turf war. Territories in Southie were up for grabs, prime real estate for any family willing to spill blood for it.”

My breath caught. “And my family…?”

He nodded grimly. “Your grandfather wanted control over the docks. He wanted to send a message to anybody who thought they could operate on his turf.”

“So, they set a fire?”

“Yes. They thought my uncle was becoming too influential. He had connections. Your grandfather believed eliminating him would scatter his allies and solidify the Romanov’s control.”

That chilled me to the bone. “But Luca was just a child.”

Santino’s expression darkened. “Collateral damage.”

The albums suddenly felt like relics of a past soaked in blood.

I felt sick. “And now?”

“I’m telling you this because if we have any chance together, you need to know the whole story.”

The photos blurred as tears welled in my eyes. The idea that my family could be responsible for such heartless brutality was overwhelming. As I sat there, a desperate thought flickered in my mind. The Luca I knew could really be Santino’s cousin.

“Is there any chance Luca could have survived the fire?”

Santino’s eyebrows knitted together. “Everybody died.”

“How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “They’re all gone.”

“But what if?—”

He sighed. “Delilah, let it go.”

My heart hammered. “Santino, I think he’s still alive.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen him before?—”

“Baby, that’s just not possible.”

Santino kissed my cheek. I barely felt the warmth on my cold skin. His family believed he was dead, but Luca was very much alive. I needed to make him listen.

My phone shrieked.

I sat up, grabbing it from the nightstand. Notifications popped on the screen. Dozens of them from the security cameras mounted at the store. My heart hammered as I opened the live camera feed filled with swirling plumes of black smoke. Flames ate up the freshly painted walls.

My store was on fire.