Chapter 4


    That night, I told Kloe all that had happened.


    "Well, that''s really creepy," shemented, frowning.


    "I know, right? And yet, he remains incredibly attractive. It''s absurd!" I replied, taking a bite of my


    sandwich.


    "It''s unfortunate that you couldn''t ask him all the questions you had nned. How many did you


    manage to ask?"


    I nced at her.


    "I''m not sure. Maybe around five? Or even fewer. Man, I can''t remember."


    "Well, I guess it''s time to move on. You''ll have to find another fascinating person to interview. If you


    need help, I can ask my dad for you."


    "Mm, thank you but I''m not sure," I sighed. "I really wanted to do this. To seed. And then I messed it


    up."


    "Forget about Caruso, Don. Don''t dwell on it."


    I nodded and sighed once again.


    "Okay. It hurts me to admit that you''re right."


    "Good. Because if I were in your shoes, I wouldn''t take the risk."


    I wasn''t thrilled about giving up, and a part of me still clung to the idea.


    "I’m off to bed. Goodnight, babe."


    "Goodnight~"


    I retreated to my bedroom, and once in the privacy of that space, I pulled out my recorder and listened


    to my brief interview with Anthonio. As the recording yed, I could vividly visualize each scene from


    earlier that day, experiencing it all over again.


    While listening to his detailed yet unsettling answers, I had a realization that left me bewildered. I


    stopped the recording and stared into space, my brows furrowed in confusion.


    "Wait," I spoke to myself. "He provided me with far too many specific answers. On many matters, he


    shouldn''t have. He vited the mafia''s code of honor. Omertà..."


    I sat in wonder for several moments. Why?


    Curiosity would kill the cat that I was, but the satisfaction I would derive from obtaining the answers to


    my questions would revive me. The journalist within me was eager to return to the central prison and


    face Antonio once more.


    ‘I’m going back to finish what I started. He is locked up and can''t harm me. I’m going to go back and


    finish what I started. He is locked up and can do me no harm.’


    ***


    Summoning all my courage, I returned to the central prison the following day.


    After much pleading, I managed to persuade my uncle to let me finish my interview. I was escorted


    back to the same interrogation room, where I patiently waited for Anthonio to be brought in.


    This time, I was determined and prepared to see it through. I intended to do my job and leave,


    projecting as much confidence as I could.


    After a few minutes, Anthonio was brought in, his chains dragging behind him. We were left alone as


    he sat across from me. Taking a deep breath, I spoke up.


    "Good morning, Mr. Caruso. How are you?" I asked, and there was a brief silence before he


    responded.


    "Didn''t expect you back," he replied.


    "We have unfinished business, sir. Shall I continue from where we left off?" I inquired, grasping my pen.


    When he didn''t reply, I looked up at him.


    "Your silence implies consent."


    He remained cold and impassive.


    "Can you provide an estimate of the number of people you have killed?" I asked, having modified my


    questions overnight to be riskier—the kind that would earn me recognition as the woman who


    convinced the infamous Caruso to disclose details about his crimes.


    "I''ve bombed many areas and killed numerous people with my own hands. Too many to estimate,"


    Anthonio replied.


    "I see," I noted down.


    ‘You imed I wasn''t very smart, yet here you are, foolishly answering my questions,’ I thought to


    myself, suppressing a smile as I looked up to ask the next question.


    "Rumors suggest you are racist. Is that true?" I asked, unable to meet his gaze, no matter how hard I


    tried.


    "That''s new," he muttered. "If I were racist, I wouldn''t bother speaking with you."


    Clearing my throat, I nodded.


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    "Noted."


    I proceeded to ask more questions from my list, each one riskier than thest, and he responded


    without hesitation. Finally, I obtained answers to all my questions, and I couldn''t have been happier to


    leave that dreadful room.


    "Are you done?" he asked.


    "Yes, finally," I admitted proudly, packing away my notebook and pen.


    "Good."


    He extended his chained hands and pulled my recorder towards him. Frozen, I stared at him, afraid to


    grab it back and give him an opportunity to harm me.


    He looked at me, and the words he uttered sent chills down my spine.


    "Now it''s my turn..."


    "Y-your what?" I stammered.


    "It''s time for me to ask you questions."


    My breath hitched.


    "No. Please, give me my recorder, sir."


    "No?" he frowned, disying the only hint of emotion I had seen from him. "I don''t ept no for an


    answer."


    Suddenly, I felt threatened.


    "Sir—"


    "I provided you with all those answers for your paper. You owe me. And at the same time, I have


    nothing to lose, as I will likely be sentenced to death. Our countries are negotiating how to deal with


    me."


    "Okay? And how is this my concern?" I wondered.


    "But do you believe I''ll stay here and patiently wait?" he asked, leaving me even more confused.


    "I don''t know," I replied, realizing I had no choice but to engage in this peculiar conversation. I needed


    my recorder—it was my evidence, my lifeline at that moment.


    "I will escape from here," he suddenly dered, jolting me out of my thoughts with wide eyes.


    "And how?" I asked. "This is the most secure prison in the state."


    "It''s nothing. I have many contacts."


    "It''s none of my business," I dryly retorted.


    "This is what you will do for me," he continued, and I couldn''t believe what I was hearing. "Today is


    Tuesday. I need you to visit me for the rest of this week, until Friday."


    "Tsk!" I snickered, grabbed my bag, and stood up. "I will ask a guard to retrieve my recorder from you


    since you do not want to hand it over."


    As I turned to leave, I heard something hit the floor, and my heart sank with it. I immediately turned


    around, and my worst fear was confirmed. Before my eyes, Anthonio shattered my recorder and


    stomped on it until it was utterly destroyed.


    Frozen, I didn''t know how to react for the first few moments. Before I could process what had just


    happened, he spoke.


    "I know where you live."


    My heart dropped again, and I began scanning my surroundings as if I were insane.


    "I know where your friends live. I know everything about you," Anthonio uttered in a chilling tone,


    making the impact of his growing threat palpable.


    Speechless and horrified, I found myself unable to react or call for the guards.


    He continued speaking.


    "Your room number is 28. Your roommate is Kloe Bakari. Your parents reside at 55 Acorn Street in


    Chicago, Illinois. They are both business people, and you are their only child, the heir to their fortune."


    My bag slipped from my grasp, and my heart started racing.


    "H-how do you—" I began to ask.


    "Like I said, contacts. Just do as I say, and I will decide whether to leave you and your family in peace."


    "Oh, my gosh..." I whispered, covering my mouth in disbelief at what was happening at that moment.


    "Donnica Smith, I will see you tomorrow. And the day after. And on Friday. Utter a single word to a


    guard out there, and I will know."


    I stared at him, feeling my knees tremble with fear. He knew everything about me. How?


    Gripped by fear, I picked up my bag and hastily left the room. I left the confused guards behind and


    didn''t utter a word to them.