Chapter 8: Joey's Presence
The deep hum of Vincent's voice filled the room, the sound both a warning and a caress that set my every nerve on edge. I could feel his breath, hot and scented with the sharp tang of tobacco, as he whispered Italian endearments that lost their sweetness in translation. My hands trembled in my lap, bound by his iron grip as he skillfully wove my hair into tight braids.
"Brava, mia piccola," Vincent praised, his tone dripping with possession. I was small, alright, a doll in the hands of a madman. The room reeked of opulence masked by the stink of his cigar, and the velvety darkness of the early evening seemed to seep through the thick, draped windows.
A soft giggle wrenched my attention away from the terror gnawing at my insides. To my utter dismay, Joey Russo, Vincent's six-year-old son, clambered onto my already sinking lap with the grace of a well-fed cat.
"You do hair pretty, Sammy," Joey said, his innocent eyes a stark contrast to the skulking shadow of his father.
Vincent chuckled lowly, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. "See, Joey? She's good for us. So very...preziosa."
"II'm not..." I sputtered, trying to maintain a semblance of composure. But every syllable was an earthquake, and Vincent's proximity only heightened my sense of impotence.
"Shh, mommy . Daddy needs you to be strong," Joey said, his words mimicking the twisted affection his father showed me. My chest tightened; this little boy was trapped in a world of corruption, not knowing the lines between love and madness.
"How is she, my son?" Vincent inquired, ignoring my discomfort altogether. He leaned back on the leather chair, blowing a cloud of smog that veiled the light of the chandelier above.
"Sammy is nice," Joey responded, laying his head on my shoulder. His voice was a soft whisper, tainted with echoes of divinely misplaced trust. "She smells like flowers. Not like the bad men."
Sighing, I tried to reach out to Joey, despite the desolation coiling around my own heart. "Bad men?"
"Mhm," Joey hummed, "Daddy says they're sleepin' with the fishes. Because they were naughty."
My blood ran cold. Those weren't bedtime stories. They were eulogies whispered from the lips of the damned.
Determined not to let Joey see my despair, I turned my focus to Vincent. "He shouldn't talk about-"
"About what, Samantha?" Vincent interjected, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "This is our world. You're part of it now. Our son needs to learn."
"Your your world," I echoed weakly, the reality of my entrapment bearing down on me.
"Yes," Vincent continued, his voice a melody of dark promises. "And in our world, loyalty is rewarded, betrayal punished. Joey will grow to understand, just as you will, Samantha. You'll see."
"No," I said, steadying my voice. "There has to be another way."
Vincent's laughter, a rich baritone, filled the room. "Do you hear her, Joey? She still thinks there's a choice."
"Is there a choice, Daddy?" Joey asked, looking up to his father with all the hope of a child.
"Don't confuse the child, Vincent," I pleaded, struggling to curb the quiver in my voice.
Vincent leaned forward, his lips brushing against my ear. "Ah, but there is beauty in simplicity, isn't that right, figlio mio?"
The clinging smoke, the shadowed chamber, the crushing reality of our little theater-it was a macabre symphony conducted by Vincent, with Joey and me as unwilling participants.
A sudden crack of the door made my heart leap. Antonio entered, his frame filling the doorway, a silent monolith of raw muscle and inevitable violence.
"Sir, there's a situation that requires your attention," Antonio stated, his voice an emotionless drone.
Vincent's fingers paused mid-braid, but he did not release me from his lap nor did Joey stir from mine. "Speak."
"It's the detectives. They've begun to ask questions. They're digging where they shouldn't."
"And?" Vincent pressed, the word a blade that cut straight to the point.
"We might have to clean house," Antonio muttered, his eyes betraying nothing.
Vincent sighed, a dragon's weary exhale. "Fine. Handle it. But not a word before Joey." He kissed my cheek-a Judas peck-as he stood, leaving me shrouded in the echoes of his parting words, "Remember, mia cara, there's no escaping family."
I watched him stalk out of the room, a predator on the prowl, the smoke from his discarded cigar swirling in his wake.
"I like your braids," Joey said, trying to lighten the leaden air as Antonio closed the door with a definitive thud.
"My... my braids," I repeated, the eerie sense of normalcy jarring as silence claimed the room.
"Yeah!" Joey cheered, a stark contrast to the demons that lurked beneath his innocence. "You'll stay and make everything nicer, right?"
His question, laden with a child's earnest hope, spun a web of torment around my heart. Even in the lair of a monster, there was still a flicker of something pure, something worth fighting for.
"Yes, Joey," I murmured, a soft promise amidst the shadows. "I'll do my best. I'll always do my very best." I can feel the tears well up in my eyes as Joey laughs leaving me alone stuck in Vincent's bedroom chained to the bed.
