Page 13

The waiter arrives with wine, pouring a splash for Vittorio to taste. He nods his approval, and the waiter fills both our glasses. I don’t touch mine.

“I don’t drink,” I say finally. “It’s illegal, I’m not of age yet!”

Vittorio laughs, a sharp sound that feels like broken glass.

“Suddenly concerned with legality? That’s rich, considering the fake passport my men found in your apartment.

” He takes a sip of his wine, watching me over the rim of his glass.

“Did you really think you could run from Anatoly? That I would allow him to take your hand over mine.”

I stare at the untouched silverware beside my plate, counting the tines on the fork, anything to avoid looking at him. One, two, three, four. Four little spears of silver. Not enough to defend myself.

“I have class tomorrow,” I say, trying again. “I should go.”

“You don’t have class tomorrow.” His voice drops lower. “You don’t have anything except what I decide to give you.”

Under the table, his hand clamps down on my knee. Hard. His fingers dig into my flesh through my jeans, and I fight the urge to slap him away. The pressure increases until it hurts.

“We’re done when I say we’re done,” he growls, leaning closer.

I wrench my knee away, my calm facade cracking. “My father won’t like you touching me.”

The words fly out before I can stop them—a stupid, dangerous thing to say, yet fear makes me reckless. Vittorio’s face changes, a flash of something ugly before his expression smooths back into pleasant menace.

“Does your father know you have a boyfriend?” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small pistol, placing it carefully on the table between us. The metal gleams dully under the chandelier light. “That would be the boy from your school? Adrien Moreau, age twenty, film studies major?”

My blood turns to ice. He knows Adrien’s name. Which means Adrien is already in danger, just for standing next to me.

“You’re going to walk out of here quietly,” Vittorio says, his voice terrifyingly soft, “or people die because of you. Starting with your little boyfriend.”

A waiter passes by, and Vittorio slides the gun back into his jacket with practiced ease. No one notices. No one sees the threat or my terror. In this restaurant full of people, I’m completely alone.

“If this is about money—” I start, thinking of the cash I’ve saved. Maybe I can buy my way out of this.

“It’s not.” He cuts me off with a dismissive wave. “Though that helps.”

He signals for the waiter, who approaches with a professional smile. “Bring the check,” Vittorio says. “My date isn’t feeling well.”

The waiter nods and retreats. I’m running out of time.

“My father can’t force me to marry you,” I say, keeping my voice low. “It’s the twenty-first century. There are laws ? —”

“Laws?” Vittorio smirks. “Do I look like I care about fucking laws or what your father has to say?”

My stomach churns. “Wait, you said my father…” My eyes widen in horror. “My father doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

“He will soon; by then it will be too late.”

“I won’t do it,” I say, though my voice shakes. “I won’t marry you.”

“You don’t have a choice.” He takes another sip of wine, perfectly calm. “Your options are to come willingly and maintain some dignity, or I’ll drag you back kicking and screaming. Either way, you’re getting on my plane and you will marry me.”

The waiter returns with the check. Vittorio signs it without looking at the amount. Money means nothing to him, just like my consent means nothing.

I need to think. I need time. I need to get away from him, even for a minute. I stand abruptly. “I need to use the bathroom.”

He eyes me warily, calculating the risk. The restaurant’s bathroom will have a door that locks, giving me precious seconds of privacy to think.

“Don’t be long,” he says finally. “I’d hate to come looking for you.”

I walk away, feeling his eyes drilling into my back with every step. My legs tremble beneath me, threatening to give way. The weight of what’s happening, being dragged back to Italy, forced into marriage with a man who sees me as property, presses down on me like a physical force.

The bathroom. I just need to get to the bathroom. Then I’ll figure out the next step.

But as I weave between tables, I already know what I have to do. There’s no reasoning with Vittorio. There’s no negotiating. If I get on that plane, my life is over.

I hurry down the hallway to the bathroom, my sneakers screeching on the floor.

Entering the bathroom, my reflection splinters across gold-framed mirrors lining the walls—pale face, wide eyes, hair escaping its neat ponytail.

I look exactly like what I am: prey. The bathroom door swings shut behind me with a soft whoosh, and I flick the lock and gasp in a breath that feels like my first in hours.

My hands shake as I check each stall, making sure I’m alone, before locking myself in the one furthest from the door.

My heart pounds so hard I swear it’s visible through my shirt, a cartoon thump-thump-thump that might burst through my ribs at any moment. Think, Gina. Think.

The bathroom is absurdly luxurious—marble and gold and hand towels so plush they probably cost more than my textbooks. The stall door is thick, solid wood with a heavy lock. It won’t keep Vittorio out forever if he gets through the bathroom door, yet it’ll buy me minutes. Maybe seconds.

I peer up, seeking a way out, and spot it—a small window near the ceiling. It’s tiny, barely big enough for a child to crawl through, with a brass latch that looks rusted from disuse. It’s a window. It’s outside. It’s away from Vittorio.

The toilet lid clanks as I drop it down and climb on top, my shoes slipping on the porcelain. I’m too short. Even standing on tiptoe on the toilet, my fingers barely brush the bottom of the window frame. Shit.

“Gina?” Vittorio’s voice is closer than I expected. He must have followed me down the hallway. “Everything alright in there?”

My blood freezes. I steady my voice, force it to sound normal. “Just a minute!”

“Take your time,” he says; however, the threat is clear in his tone. “Think carefully before doing anything stupid, love.”

Love. The word is poison coming from him. I glance around frantically. The toilet paper dispenser is mounted on the wall—if I can get my foot on it, maybe I can boost myself high enough to reach the window.

I brace one hand against the wall, place my foot carefully on the metal dispenser, and push up. It creaks under my weight. One shot at this. If I fall, if I make too much noise, he’ll know and come barging in.

My fingers grasp the brass latch, crusty with age. I jiggle it, biting my lip to keep from cursing when it refuses to budge. Outside, I hear Vittorio knock again.

I twist the latch harder, feeling something in my nail bed tear. A sharp pain shoots through my finger, and the latch finally gives with a rusty squeal that sounds deafening in the quiet bathroom.

“What was that?” Vittorio’s voice is sharp now, suspicious.

“The soap dispenser’s button is stuck,” I call back to him, hoping he believes it while fighting to keep my voice steady as I push at the window.

It resists, years of paint sealing it shut.

I hit it with my palm and nearly fall off the toilet roll holder.

Once, twice. On the third try, it gives suddenly, swinging outward with a gust of cool night air.

“You’ve been in there a while,” Vittorio says, and I hear keys jingle. “Open it, now.” I hear him order someone who I’m assuming is a staff member.

The gap is small—maybe fifteen inches square—it’s my only chance. I grab the frame and pull myself up, arms straining, feet scrabbling for purchase on the toilet and dispenser. My shoulders barely fit through the opening, scraping painfully against the wooden frame.

If he catches me, I push the thought away. I know exactly what happens if he catches me. A one-way ticket to Italy. A forced marriage. A life where I’m nothing… Just property, passed from my father to my husband like a business asset.

The toilet shifts beneath my feet, porcelain groaning. I freeze, half in and half out of the window, heart in my throat.

“Gina.” His voice hardens. “Open the door!”

I wriggle frantically, feeling the rough wood tear at my shirt, my skin.

My hips catch on the frame, and for one horrible moment, I think I’m stuck—trapped halfway, the perfect target.

I twist, bones grinding against the unyielding frame, and then suddenly I’m through, tumbling out into the night air.

I hit the ground hard, landing on scattered gravel in what must be a service alley behind the restaurant. Pain shoots through my shoulder and hip. I’m up in an instant, adrenaline masking the hurt.

Behind me, I hear the bathroom door bang open. “Gina!” Vittorio’s voice, furious now.

I don’t look back. I run, sprinting down the narrow alley between buildings, feet skidding on loose gravel.

The night air burns in my lungs, cold and sharp.

A stitch forms in my side almost immediately.

I push through it, turning blindly at the first intersection, then the next, creating distance between me and the restaurant, between me and Vittorio.

The alleys form a maze, twisting between the backs of buildings—restaurants with their overpowering garbage smells, apartments with laundry hanging from windows, shops with their deliveries stacked in neat piles. I have no plan beyond running, no destination except to get away.

My only thought, pounding in time with my footsteps: I will not go back. I will not be owned. I will not.