lot of the time, so I’m sure I’ll be able to work that angle. But first I need to do something. I’ve overheard whispers about Dad attacking the Italians worse now that Benjy is free. I can’t stand the thought that I’m somehow responsible.
This afternoon, I know Ubert is on the door, so I hatch a plan. I need to talk with Benjy. I need to convince him to stop the violence.
I bake a gorgeous apple pie, his favorite. As I suspect, he can’t resist the fragrance. The door cracks open. He comes ambling in.
“Yes?” I ask innocently.
He glances around the kitchen: the island, the state-of-the-art cooker, the artwork hanging in the corner, the view of the city. Anywhere, basically, apart from at the pie.
“I was wondering if you wanted to call Alda or Emily,” he mumbles.
They’re the only calls I’m allowed. And he stands there the whole time, watching, just like he does with my Skype lessons.
“No, thank you,” I say.
“Oh.”
He shifts from foot to foot. I can feel how badly he wants to taste it. It takes all my self-control not to laugh out loud. Ubert is like the uncle I never had.
“Ubert,” I say naively, “would you like a slice of pie?”
His nod is comical. He’s grinning. “Sure, miss, that’d be nice.”
Ubert keeps his phone in the pocket of his suit jacket. The pocket is loose and wide. Sometimes the phone is half hanging out. Ubert is not very good with technology. He hasn’t set a password for his phone. These are all things that make him the perfect mark for some casual pickpocketing.
As I grab a plate from the cupboard, I drop it, hoping I make it look like an accident. It smashes on the kitchen floor.
“I’m an idiot!” I shriek. “What the hell is wrong with me? I’m a stupid, pregnant idiot!”
Ubert’s face drops. “It’s not a problem, miss.” He rushes around the kitchen island and kneels down, collecting the pieces. “There’s no need for that.”
I lean down, slide my hand in, grab the phone. It’s as easy as that. I shove it in my back pocket and take a step back, letting out a trembling sigh.
“Will you excuse me? I need to use the restroom.”
“Sure, miss,” he says. “I’ll get this cleaned up and we’ll have that pie.”
I almost feel guilty as I quickly walk across the apartment to the bathroom. I have to remind myself that, even if Ubert is nice, he’s still here to stop me leaving, against my will. I’m still a prisoner. He’s still Carlo’s man.
I close the bathroom door, lock it, and then immediately dial Benjy’s number. I hope he hasn’t changed it since I ran away. I don’t even think about calling Dad, since he’s never listened to me, not once in his whole asshole life. I let out a sigh of relief when the phone actually starts to ring.
But when the ringing stops, it’s not Benjy.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice snaps, sounding angry when I don’t say anything. There’s another pause, then she says, “Is this Colleen?”
“Hazel,” I reply. “And who is this?”
“Cassandra.”
“Okay …” I trail off. I’ve never heard of a Cassandra before. “Is Benjy there?”
She huffs as though I’ve just asked her to kill her own mother and give me the life insurance money. Apparently, asking to speak with my brother is the biggest inconvenience in the world. “Oh, he’s here,” she says after a long pause. “But you can’t speak to him. Do you want to know why? Because that Italian monster you’re shacked up with beat him so badly he’s got internal bleeding. They’ve got him hooked up to machines.”
“Wait,” I say. “He is in intensive care?”
“That’s right!” she hisses.
I massage my forehead, maybe trying to rub some sense into my thoughts. The father of my unborn child—who kidnapped me—has put my criminal brother in the hospital? I think even Jerry Springer would have trouble unpacking this one.
“Shit.”
“Shit’s right,” Cassandra growls. “I’m his girlfriend, by the way. Thanks for asking. And I know all about you, you little runner. Oh, wait. Your father is here. He wants to speak with you. Fergal? Yes, it’s her. Yes. Here you go.”
Suddenly, I’m cold. Not cold like somebody just walked over my grave. Cold like somebody just dug it up and put it in an industrial freezer. My hand is on my belly as if to protect my child from him. I want to hang up, but I find I can’t. I’m frozen.
“Colleen?” Father’s deep, growling voice