LUCIAN VITALE'S POINT OF VIEW
"How old are you?" the man asked.
"Eight." My voice came out as a shaky whisper, barely audible over the car's engine.
I couldn't see a thing-they'd blindfolded me with a rough cloth that smelled of sweat and gasoline-but I could tell we were moving fast, wheels humming over pavement that shifted from smooth to cracked. They'd said they were taking me to him to decide if I lived or died.
I was terrified. My body shook with it, every nerve raw from what I'd seen. My parents were dead, and I didn't even know why. Now their killers drove me through the dark like I was just another package in the backseat. It was chilling-the ease with which they'd ended two lives, the way they spoke around me as if I weren't a grieving child at all. To them, human life meant nothing.
