Chapter 3

• "Good morning, Mr. Caruso."
• He did not reply. He just stared at me, as emotionless and silent as ever. His expression was vague, looking straight into my eyes without being bothered by the bright light.
• Nervously, I dropped my gaze to the table but knew I had to continue.
• "Um, okay. I'm Donnica Smith, a student at Kingston University. I'm here to interview you."
• 'Maybe I shouldn't have revealed where I study or my name? Oh shit. But he's locked up, so it shouldn't matter.'
• I glanced at him, but he still didn't reply or react.
• His silence both terrified and annoyed me. Time was running out.
• "Mr. Caruso," I pressed on. "I've been hearing rumors lately, like the fact that you're Italian. Is it true?" I asked the obvious, yet he remained unresponsive.
• His impassive, intimidating silence was getting to me. I was losing patience. I had limited time with him, and his lack of cooperation frustrated me.
• "Mr. Caruso, interviews require participation from both sides," I mustered the courage to say, though inside, I already regretted my outburst.
• Antonio shifted slightly, intensifying the knot in my stomach.
• 'I should apologize...'
• Just as I was about to apologize, he smirked, barely noticeable.
• 'What's going on?'
• Antonio leaned closer, placing his chained hands on the table, causing me to instinctively lean back into my chair. I was too scared of him.
• What was he about to do?
• 'Something feels off. I should leave.'
• Just as I was about to call the guard, Antonio Caruso finally spoke his first words.
• "Yes, I am Italian," he replied in a low voice.
• Confusion washed over me, and I blinked a few times. His voice matched his appearance, but it still surprised me. Smooth and velvety, if it made any sense. It had a gentle quality to it. And it made me wonder if this man had truly committed all those crimes.
• But who was I kidding? He was sick.
• "Okay," I began, reaching for my notebook. "And how old are you, sir?" I asked, avoiding eye contact.
• His eyes held darkness and yet, they were the most captivating pair I had ever seen.
• "Because there's a misconception about your age. People believe you're around fifty or so. Clearly, that's not the case. So please, enlighten me," I continued.
• "I am twenty-three..."
• I looked up at him, eyes wide with disbelief. He was the same age as me?
• "Seriously?"
• The words slipped out before I could stop them. He stared at me, still expressionless.
• "My apologies. Okay, twenty-three," I cleared my throat and moved on. "Quite young. At what age were you first arrested?"
• "Fourteen."
• My eyes couldn't have widened anymore.
• "Four-!" I coughed. "For what crime?"
• "Nothing too serious," he replied calmly.
• "Which was?"
• "I killed a family of five..."
• 'Nothing too serious?!'
• I fought to keep a neutral expression. It was hard to believe everything he was sharing. The chilling revelation that he had murdered a family of five at fourteen sent shivers down my spine. The room felt colder, and I knew I had to gather myself and leave as soon as possible.
• "Mr. Caruso, how did you end up in America?" I pressed on with my questions.
• He looked at me in silence for what felt like an eternity, about three minutes. I thought he wouldn't answer. But he did. This man was toying with my emotions.
• "I never knew my parents. Grew up in an orphanage and joined the Mafia at twelve."
• My eyes widened as I jotted down this information. My hands trembled, and I had to take a deep breath to steady myself and continue writing. He was simply answering my questions, yet something felt extremely off. Very off.
• "Please, go on..."
• "I was transferred to America with some other members. I was the youngest and involved in drug and arms trafficking. I smuggled them from here to Italy. I learned to kill, and I did during that period of my life."
• 'At twelve?'
• I noted silently, avoiding his gaze.
• "How were you caught?"
• "After I killed my girlfriend at the time. Caught in the act. I was fourteen. Did time in juvenile detention and was released at eighteen."
• I stared at him, seeing the sociopath he was. He shared these details as if they meant nothing.
• "Why?" I asked.
• "She cheated on me."
• "What? How old was she?" I couldn't help but ask, too shocked and curious to stick to my prepared list of questions.
• "Nineteen."
• "Nine-" My sentence trailed off as dizziness washed over me. I leaned back in my chair, trying to process the bizarre information I had just received.
• "You're not very smart, are you?" he suddenly remarked, surprising me.
• "Excuse me?" I sat up, furrowing my brows.
• "And I'm twenty-seven, not twenty-three."
• What was this about now?
• "Mr. Caruso, I'm at a loss here."
• "I'm twenty-seven," he firmly repeated.
• Confusion clouded my mind.
• "Okay. But why did you tell me otherwise?"
• "I was just guessing your age," he replied nonchalantly, leaning back in his seat.
• Cold sweat trickled down my back, unsure of how to respond.
• "And I was right. You're twenty-three, aren't you?"
• "We're here to discuss you."
• "Are we?" he asked, widening his eyes, his gaze penetrating my soul.
• It felt like a threat, and my instincts screamed at me to get out of there.
• "I appreciate when people are afraid," his voice interrupted my thoughts.
• "Good to know. I'll make a note of it. This interview ends here," I declared, hastily packing my belongings into my bag.
• Suddenly, he leaned closer, and I froze. My breath caught in my throat.
• "But you're not finished. I see more questions," he stated, his eyes fixed on my notebook.
• I immediately stood up and gathered the remaining items.
• "I have everything I need. Good day, sir," I responded curtly.
• "Okay," he replied simply, watching me rush to the door and knock.
• As soon as it opened, I swiftly exited the deadly room without looking back.