Where the Sun Hides (Seasons of Betrayal #1)(58)

“Olly!”

Her shout did nothing. The dog was already gone.

Cursing under her breath, Violet righted her jacket and jogged after the dog. She wasn’t going to put up with Carmine’s nonsense if she lost his dog because it wouldn’t listen to her.

Before she knew it, her sneakers crunched on dirt as she called out for the dog again. It would be a good half hour, maybe even a forty-five minute, walk back to the mansion from where she was now.

And she had already gone too far, so there was no point in turning back now.

Violet had just caught a flash of beige fur when she noticed that the lights to one of the cabins were on, making her pause. Normally Alberto would have told her if anyone was staying in them, and since they were supposed to be empty, she didn’t think twice about going up to the door, ready to knock.

But something made her pause … Instead of knocking as she had planned to do, she walked around the side, peeking through the windows there. The furniture was still covered in sheets, the place empty of anyone as far as she could see, but even still, that feeling of unease didn’t fade.

She was almost to the back of the cabin when she finally found Olly standing next to the small, rectangular window that looked into the basement. She hissed a command for him to stay, not raising her voice above a whisper, but it didn’t matter, Olly wasn’t moving. Whatever had made him run off was there in the basement, it seemed.

Getting a firm grip on his collar this time—she didn’t need him running off again—her curiosity got the best of her as she crouched down to see whatever it was that held his attention.

Carmine was in the room, along with two others that Violet couldn’t make out from where she was standing, but what surprised her the most was that Franco was in the room as well. Except, he wasn’t there by choice.

A steel table had been set up in the center of the room, a plastic tarp placed beneath it, and on that table was Franco, his arms strapped down on either side of him, his legs cuffed in the same way. A light sheen of sweat was covering his face and naked torso, and if Violet wasn’t mistaken, he was shaking as well.

There was nothing to cover his head, so his panicked, frenzied gaze was clear for them all to see. She knew she should have walked away then, put everything she was seeing to the back of her mind and act as though it had never happened. But she felt stuck, almost frozen in time as she watched the scene play out before her.

Franco wasn’t the only one in distress, however. Carmine, while off to the side, was pacing the floor, scrubbing a hand down his face every few seconds, as though he too were still trying to make sense of what was happening. He wasn’t wearing the same clothes he’d been in earlier—instead, he was in a pair of wrinkled jeans and a shirt whose logo was so faded, the original design couldn’t be made out.

He shook his head hard, muttering something that Violet couldn’t hear, but one of the men he was in the room with could. The man gestured to Carmine first, then to Franco who was now pleading, his hands in tight fists as he tried to break free of his restraints.

It was rare, Violet thought, for her brother to display such anguish. Alberto had never been easy on him that way, always demanding that Carmine act like a man, even when he was a boy. So, to see this emotion in him made Violet’s own heart seize with worry.

What was happening?

It took some convincing, or rather it was a sharp slap to the back of Carmine’s head, that finally had him crossing the room, picking up an instrument from the table near the wall. Violet crept a little closer, squinting her eyes to see better, but there was no need, not when Carmine came right back to where he had been standing, and she could now see what he was holding.

The glint of silver drew her gaze down to his hand, to the small blade she might not have noticed otherwise. It was thin, almost concealed entirely, but it was the sharpened tip that told her what it was.

A scalpel.

It was time to leave. She needed to leave, but no matter how loud the words were screamed in her own head, she remained in place, though her grip on Olly’s collar tightened just a little more.

Carmine approached slowly, as though this was the last thing he wanted, his face reflecting each plea that was shouted from Franco’s mouth. He stopped just at the edge of the table, and though he was looking at Franco, he couldn’t meet his eyes—that was one place he refused to look.

He raised his instrument, his hands shaking as he brought it down to Franco’s chest, resting it right in the middle, but he didn’t cut, not yet. Or at least not before he mouthed an apology that would mean nothing in the next few seconds. Because once he finally dragged that blade down, blood welling immediately as Franco’s skin split open, he screamed, a blood-curdling yell that even Violet could hear.

One of the other men in the room rushed forward, clamping a hand over Franco’s mouth to muffle his cries of pain, even as he used his substantial weight to hold a thrashing Franco still. Carmine didn’t remove the blade until he reached the man’s abdomen, then backed away, his face a little greener than it had been before.

But that was only the first, because very soon, that scalpel was replaced with bolt cutters, and Carmine had to return to his once childhood friend.

Nausea churned heavily in her stomach, threatening to spill out of her in a moment’s notice. Finally, when she saw Carmine position the metal around one of Franco’s ribs, she squeezed her eyes shut just as he snapped it free.