Sweetest Sorrow
Forbidden Series Book #2
J.M. Darhower
Contents
Copyright
Sweetest Sorrow
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by J.M. Darhower
J.M. DARHOWER
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination.
Copyright 2016 by Jessica Mae Darhower
All rights reserved.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow
That I shall say good night till it be morrow."
Romeo and Juliet, Act 2 Scene 2
Prologue
The air was damp, thick with filth, overpowering with the stench of dirt and mildew. Despite it being summer, coldness had settled between the solid concrete walls, the windowless chamber offering no ventilation.
A basement.
The moment Dante Galante regained consciousness, he sensed he was underground. The dense air invaded his lungs and coated the inside of his tattered chest, making every breath strained, like he was slowly suffocating.
Buried alive.
That was how it felt.
Darkness surrounded him, the kind of darkness that felt like a void, like one wrong move and he might get lost in it, never to be found again.
He blinked and saw nothing.
Blinked again. Nothing still.
How long had he been there? An hour? A day? A week? Maybe more. He'd been tormented mercilessly, beaten until he could no longer stand, strangled before being brought back to life again.
Again and again, they pushed him to the edge, but he'd yet to tip over. They could break his body, but they weren't going to break him.
He wouldn't let them.
So they tortured him until he lost consciousness, taunting him all along, waiting for him to crack. 'We'll put you out of your misery,' they promised. 'All you have to do is ask.'
Dante said nothing.
He barely made a noise.
He endured it in silence, passing out before waking up to suffer even more.
Pain was nothing to a man who had been burned alive at five years old. Nothing they could do to him would ever surpass the feeling of his body on fire, the sensation of his shirt melting right into his skin, fabric dripping like candle wax, charring him.
Compared to that?
This was a piece of fucking cake.
Hours. Days. Weeks. Who knew?
Time passed, and his body grew weaker, but his resolve remained strong. He was going to die. He'd come to accept that. There would be no crying, no begging, and not a stitch of fear. That was what they wanted from him.
He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
So he lay there, listening to the world above him, a world that wouldn't try to rescue him if he screamed, waiting for them to finish him off. He was deep in the heart of Barsanti territory. He had no friends there.
It happened unexpectedly, the basement door thrusting open, bright light filtering through. Dante winced from the harshness, too drained to move, unable to shield his eyes as someone descended the stairs. He blinked as they approached, trying to make out his surroundings, his gaze meeting his captor's.
Roberto Barsanti.
The man stopped in front of Dante, his shadowy figure blocking out the blinding glare. Fury swirled through Dante, strengthening him. He considered lunging, attacking, making a break for it even though he wouldn't make it far.
He thought about it.
He almost did it.
Until the man spoke.
"Your sister's dead."
Those words, in that impassive voice, stalled Dante's heart for a long beat. No. No. No. It couldn't be. He didn't want to believe it. Couldn't believe it. Dead? No fucking way. Not his sister. Not Genevieve. It was just another form of torture. They’d broken his body but he hadn’t caved. They were going to try to break his spirit, and he couldn't let them.
So he just glared at the man, trying to control his strained breathing, hoping like hell the sudden spike of fear he felt didn’t show.
He didn't want them to see.
God, no, don't let it be...
"She's dead," Barsanti said again, his vacant stare fixed on the grimy wall before he turned back to Dante. Tears swam in his usually callous eyes. Intense fear swarmed the room, mixed with a sense of devastation, but it wasn't radiating from Dante. No. The man in front of him was cracking, even more than Dante ever had. "Your sister is dead, and my son…” A long pause, so long Dante’s mind raced for a way to finish that thought, realizing the truth a fraction of a second before the words left Barsanti's lips. “He's dead, too."
Dante let out a shaky breath, words on the tip of his tongue, the first ones he would utter since they'd snatched him. Just kill me now. He swallowed the thought back, resolved to stay strong, but something forced itself from his busted lips, a whisper in a gritty voice. "Fuck you."
In a blink, Barsanti drew back his arm, his fist connecting with Dante's face, pain exploding through his skull.
This is it, he thought, as the blackness took him.
I'm dying alone in the dark.
Chapter One
Primo Galante hadn't driven a car in over sixteen years.
He missed it sometimes... the feel of the wheel beneath his hands, the revving of the engine, his foot pressing on the gas pedal as the car weaved through the city streets, offering the kind of freedom he'd always yearned for.
The freedom to just go.
Wherever. Whenever.
Ah, how he loved having that kind of control.
It wasn't the same, watching the world fly by from the backseat of a chauffeured black sedan. You see, the city looks different through thick, tinted windows. Less freeing. No longer the brave eagle soaring through the sky, he'd become a caged animal, shielded behind shatterproof glass, separating him from the rest of the wildlife that swarmed the concrete jungle. Harsh reality had put a leash around his neck, strangling him to the point where mere precaution twisted into irrational panic.
He'd gripped so tightly to his family after the explosion that had killed his Joey that what had been left of them slipped between the fingers of his clenched fists. His wife, dead, her car slamming into an overpass years ago. Dante, presumed dead, his car abandoned in an alley, blood splattered all over the driver's seat. And his daughter, his little girl, his beautiful Genevieve…
Primo couldn't yet bring himself to admit what might've come of her.
But as he stood out on Pier 76 at one o'clock in the morning, his gaze glued to the charred, twisted remains of a blood red Lotus Evora on the back of an NYPD flatbed tow truck tucked inside an open garage, police tape surrounding it as a forensics team scoured it for clues, he couldn't discount the truth.
Genevieve was gone now, too.
Maybe dead, maybe not, but regardless, he'd lost her.
There was no coming back from what happened.
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br /> The electronic gate to the right of Primo buzzed before shifting open. He tore his eyes from the crushed metal mess that had belonged to the Barsanti boy, instead turning toward the impound lot. He was there for one reason and one reason alone, and dwelling wouldn't do anybody any good.
Night clung to everything around him, casting shadows along the rows of seized vehicles. Primo shoved his hands in the pockets of his black slacks as he took a deep breath to conceal his nerves. He kept his chin up, his shoulders squared as a uniformed officer approached.
"Mr. Galante, thanks for coming out." The officer offered his hand. Primo's gaze darted to it before he looked the man in the eyes again, making no move to shake it. Not out of some sort of code of conduct, keeping him from being respectful to law enforcement.
His palms were sweaty.
He didn't want anyone to know.
"I appreciate the call," Primo said. "And the discretion."
"Of course," the officer said, dropping his hand. "Follow me."
They strode through the gated lot, to where the black BMW was parked in the back, a sunshine-yellow tassel hanging from the rearview mirror. Genevieve had graduated high school mere months ago.
Still so damn young.
A life wasted, and why?
Primo approached his daughter's car and glanced through the windows, his eyes skimming along the leather seats. Although it was dark, his vision obscured, the inside appeared pristine with not a hint of blood to be found. He stepped back, surveying the outside of the car. Besides a dent on the front end, some of the paint swiped off, it seemed unharmed.
"Minor fender bender," the officer said. "I ran the tag at the scene and it came back to you, so I figured you'd want to take care of it."
Primo nodded. "Off the record?"
"Always," the officer said. "Wasn't hard slipping it in under the radar. Everyone has been preoccupied with what happened in Little Italy tonight."
Primo's eyes drifted past his daughter's car, again seeking out the hunk of twisted metal tucked into the garage. "I bet."
"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
"What makes you think I would?"
"Call it a hunch."
Silence permeated the air as the men stared at each other. Yeah, Primo knew all about it. He'd felt the ground quake beneath his shoes. He still felt the devastation, his world imploding as the car exploded, because it had taken with it more than just a good-for-nothing Barsanti boy.
It had taken something precious to him.
Hope.
After a moment, Primo lowered his head, his shoulders hunching just a bit. He didn't humor the officer with a response.
"Do you have the keys?" he asked, staring out through the shadowy lot, his gaze sweeping along the cloudy sky, a gray haze blocking the moon, like thick smoke after a fire is doused.
"Right here." The officer pulled them out of his pocket, the keys jingling together in his hand. "I can get one of the tow guys to drop it off at your place."
Primo considered that for a second—a brief second, where he almost agreed. Instead, he turned to the man and shook his head. "That won't be necessary. I can get it there myself."
The man's eyes widened. "You?"
"Don't look so shocked," Primo said, stepping around the car, pulling his sweaty hand from his pocket and holding it out. "I remember how to drive."
The officer dropped the keys into his palm, not saying a word as Primo unlocked the driver's side door. The man took a step back, watching with skepticism, as Primo climbed in behind the wheel. He would've been offended by the officer's reaction, by the blatant disrespect doubting him portrayed, but his nerves were too frazzled to feel anything beyond his unease. He took a moment to adjust the seat, to try to get comfortable in the cramped front seat, but it was useless. There was nothing comforting about what he was doing.
"Do you even have a driver's license anymore?" the officer asked.
"Does it matter?" Primo quipped, because no, he didn't. His expired years before and he'd never found reason to renew it. "What are you going to do, ticket me?"
"No, I'm just worried—"
"Worry about yourself," Primo said. "That's who you ought to be worrying about, since you seem to want to stick your nose in my business and ask questions you ought not be asking."
The officer held up his hands defensively as he took a step back. "You have a good night, Mr. Galante."
A good night? Impossible.
Those nights were all behind him. They were memories, ones he would never relive, because everything good had disappeared, leaving him there… behind the wheel for the first time in sixteen years. A long chunk of time to most, but it had been the blink of an eye to him. The freeing feeling was gone, though. No more soaring. Somebody had clipped his wings. Time for a crash landing.
Primo shut the door, clutching the keys so hard in his fist the grooves dug into his damp skin, leaving marks. He gave himself five seconds to pull himself together before he stuck the key in the ignition.
Another five seconds before he had the courage to turn the damn thing.
There was a click, and Primo held his breath, his stomach churning and chest aching. Suddenly, he was almost two decades younger, standing in that pizzeria parking lot, his eyes glued to his eldest son through the windows of his car. His heart battered his rib cage. He knew right then. He knew. Five more seconds and his son would disappear.
He was sick and tired of his children disappearing.
Primo always savored those seconds, but he couldn't do it anymore. He had to stop dwelling. He turned the key the rest of the way and the engine awoke. No explosion. No chaos. Just him behind the wheel again—only so much older now.
He put the car in 'drive' and pulled through the lot, toward the open gate. As he passed the mangled sport's car, he averted his gaze.
Traffic was light at one in the morning. For that, Primo was grateful, because driving a car was nothing like riding a bike. Back when he'd driven, cars had been monsters made of rigid metal, not these light fiberglass masses stacked with electronics. So many lights and beeps coming from the dashboard. Back in his day, a dashboard was only good for propping up your feet.
It took him almost forty-five minutes to make it home. He pulled the BMW into the driveway, hesitating before he cut the engine.
Silence surrounded him.
Pulling the key from the ignition, he stepped out of the car. Lights shone from the house, hastily left on when he ran out of the place hours earlier.
Before he made his way inside, noise rang out behind him in the street, squealing tires shattering the peace. His eyes cut that way, a black sedan approaching.
Primo was unarmed and alone. For the first time in years, he'd allowed himself to be vulnerable. Never again. The car skidded to a stop in front of his property, the back passenger door flinging open. He waited for the ambush. He waited for the bullets. He waited for gunfire to light up the darkness, but instead, the car sped off once more.
Something flew out of the backseat, slamming the asphalt hard before rolling, the wheels of the barreling car almost running over it. Primo crept closer, curiosity fueling him, as his gaze trailed along the shadowy mass in the street.
Filthy bare feet.
Ripped, bloody clothing.
Black-and-blue skin.
Before the car had even vanished, recognition struck Primo.
Dante.
Scorching, dry air blew through the open windows, rustling the crinkled map on Genna's lap. She clutched both sides of it, trying to keep it in place, as she tucked her foot beneath her, relaxing on the long, dirty bench of the old blue Chevy truck. The engine roared, the truck shuddering whenever Matty pressed harder on the gas pedal.
Genna let out a deep breath, blowing some tendrils of dark hair that fell from her sloppy bun into her flushed face. "It's hot as balls, Matty."
He let out a laugh, the sound barely registering above the rumble of the engine. "Hot as balls?"
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"Yes. Balls."
"Well, you know, balls aren’t actually that hot."
Genna turned her focus from the outdated map to Matty. He glistened with sweat, beads of it running down his tanned face. Long gone were the sweaters and button-downs, abandoned for a plain white undershirt. The temperature outside had to be well above a hundred that late summer day. August. "What?"
"They aren't that hot," he said again, casting her a sideways look. "They're a few degrees cooler than the rest of the body, anyway. That's why they hang down like they do and why they move, you know… they're self-regulating."
Was he seriously talking to her about the intricacies of testicles?
The fucking swinging testes?
"Ugh, thanks for the science lesson." Genna grimaced at the mental images. Functional? Absolutely. But they were far from attractive. "Doesn't negate the fact that I feel like a sweaty ball sac over here."
"Well, that's what happens when you head south," he said. "It gets hotter."
Genna was certain there was a sexual innuendo in there somewhere, but she was too frustrated to play along.
She felt anything but sexy at that moment.
"No, it's what happens when you steal a truck made in the 1840's," she countered. "Jesus Christ, was air conditioning even invented back then? No wonder Cleopatra hired people to fan her."
Matty laughed again, this time louder, more genuine. "Genna, there's so much wrong with what you just said that I don't even know where to start."
She rolled her eyes, turning back to the map. "You're frying my brain in this furnace-on-wheels."
Matty let go of the steering wheel with his right hand and reached over, brushing his knuckles along her warm cheek. As annoyed as she was, as hot as she was, his light touch still managed to make her shiver. "We'll stop soon and get a room for the night."
"You promise?"
"Yes."
"Somewhere with air conditioning?"
"Are there places without it?"
Genna glanced out the window, seeing nothing but endless wilderness as they weaved through the dense mountains of Virginia. She felt like she had slipped into an alternate universe where civilization no longer existed. Genna was a city girl, through and through, and this? Well, this was a nightmare. "Considering the fact that it feels like we're filming Wrong Turn 6 right now? I'm gonna have to say yes."