Untangle Me

Chapter 4

Giada

My whole body is overheating still hours after Mr. Grump left my cell. He practically fled as if his ass were on fire after his little announcement on how he can touch me, leaving me breathless and confused.

I still don't know why I'm here. I've been trying to search my brain for any indication on why but I simply can't come up with anything.

What I've been able to piece together was that he might've been after my father simply because he was a police officer. Capo Crimini- who I honestly thought was a myth- is what they call the head of the Italian mafia here in NY. He's a criminal. A bloodthirsty murderer with no morals.

He's a monster. Then why does he have to look like a goddamned saint created to tempt people into losing their sanity?

He killed my father, I repeat to myself. He must've, right? The stranger in the bar all those months ago must've been right and I'm only here because he wants to finish the job. Perhaps I'm still breathing because he likes to play with his prey before ripping it to pieces.

That must be it. That sounds like something a monster like him would do.

I hate him. I only hate my body's reaction to him even more.

I'm forced out of my thoughts when my door bursts open and five people rush inside. Two men carrying what looks like a small tub and three women. The men set the tub down in the middle of my cell and I notice one of the women is holding a hose. The start of it must be somewhere outside my room since the rubber tube disappears behind the door.

My mind is reeling. What the hell is going on? Who are these people and what is the tub for?

Oh god. Is this how I die? Are they going to drown or waterboard me? I don't want to bite the grass like that! With wrinkly fingers and wet hair, looking like flipping Gollum? Hell no!

I'm about to protest to the crowd when the two men seem to receive a message through their headphones.

"Yes, Mr. Vince," they mutter at the same time before heading to the door.

Vince...

The scenery surrounding me changes until I'm no longer in my white cell but my father's living room.

"I hate him," my father mutters, running his hands through his short-cropped hair as he stares at the files in front of him. "Slippery bastard. I know it was him just how I knew it was his father before but I can't prove it! Everyone knows but no one acts on it!" He slams a fist on his desk, a gesture more violent than I'm used to seeing from my dad. I walk over and try to soothe him.

"Who, Papa?" I ask. I must've been no older than fourteen at the time.

"Vincenzo," he mutters absently, taking my hand from his shoulder and placing a gentle kiss on my knuckles. "Come on, let's get you to bed." He gets up and starts tugging me down the hall.

Not before I twist my neck and catch a glimpse on the file my father's been staring at, though. It's a picture. One I barely understand without more time to interpret all the red it shows.

I gasp, my head reeling as I zone out of the memory. Vincenzo, that's his name. Last name, at least. My father had been after him and his family for over a decade.

I feel sick as I blink my surroundings back into focus. When I finally realize three pairs of wide eyes are staring at me, their faces way too close for comfort, I nearly jump out of my skin.

The three women step back at the same time, their faces mirroring apparent relief. Not that they were scared for my well-being, of course. More likely they were scared for theirs.

I guess that means I'm not allowed to die on their watch. Good to know.

"What are you doing here?" I finally ask. The tub is still here, filled with water now. The hose is gone and the door to my cell closed.

"Bath," one of the ladies squeals, pointing to the tub. I gape at her.

"You want me to take a bath?" I ask dumbly. The women share a look before nodding at me.

"With you in the room?" I add slowly. I'm not particularly shy about my body but undressing in front of these strangers? With all the silent staring they've got going on? I'd rather eat a live mouse.

"Yes," one of them says, nodding more enthusiastically. I wonder if they truly understand me. They're blinking weirdly as if I were something foreign and strange.

"Can I get some privacy?" I ask.

"No!" another woman tells me quickly.

"Can't let drown," another one adds. It's a really bad time but I nearly burst out laughing.

"I won't drown in a bathtub," I try to reason with them. Seems they're not having it though since their expressions slowly turn sour and impatient.

"Bath, now," the visibly oldest of the three tells me.

I'm done arguing, I guess. But only because I feel filthy and that tub looks really inviting.

Stepping out of my clothes, I repeat to myself that I have nothing to be ashamed of. I'm a prisoner, for god's sake. These ladies don't care!

I lower myself in the water, all the while wondering if this is a regular thing for them. Especially when they close in on me all at once, as if practiced. One of them whips a white tube from somewhere and splatters a good amount of -presumably- shower gel onto a cloth in her hand. Then she starts cleaning me with it, ignoring my protests determinedly.

The other two ladies start on my hair only when my body is as clean as it has ever been and the water is murky.

They dunk it in the water, let it soak before brushing it out roughly. When I say rough, I mean full-Italian-grandma-kneading-dough kind of rough. I mean scalp-burning-and-neck-hurting kind of rough.

As soon as they're done, they force me out of the water, dry me off with the softest towel I've felt in my life before wrapping it around me. The oldest one presses a button on her wristband right as I realize I have no clean clothes to change into.

The door opens, letting through a short, thin man. He smiles apologetically while two of the ladies hold me in place. Before I can even begin to wonder what the hell is happening, I feel the prick of a needle in the side of my neck. The world tilts one way, then the other. Then everything goes dark and my body goes limp.

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