Dangerously Unusual

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. Têxt belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

"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.