22. Isabella
22
ISABELLA
I waited two whole minutes after Teo left before I sprang into action.
It took me five minutes to search his wardrobe for clothes, settling for a pair of jeans I could roll up and secure with a belt, as well as a black T-shirt that I could tuck in so it didn’t fall to my knees.
It took me another minute to orient myself out in the corridor and beeline to where I saw the computer before.
Then, fifteen grueling minutes to get past the encryption. Ten more to get past the second. Then, half an hour to deal with the third set.
I might have been impressed by the lengths he went to keep people out if I wasn’t in such a rush to get in.
“Where are you?”
These were the first words that Leon managed to send me after I secured the line (another ten minutes.)
“Teo’s hostage. Buy me some time?”
I didn’t wait for his response. I went straight to the front door.
Perhaps I should have checked it out first, because it’s somehow worse to crack than the computer, and every second that passes is fraying my nerves.
In total, it takes three hours, twenty-six minutes, and thirteen seconds from the moment Teo Vitale left to the second I step out into the chilled evening air. Finally, finally, above ground.
I breathe it in hungrily, only just realizing how much I missed it after it fills my lungs once more. And I laugh because I’m free.
But also because I have no idea where I am.
Around the bunker entrance—a set of metal doors that look just like any other maintenance access to the sewers—is a parking lot. It’s not particularly large, but the buildings that surround it are entirely unfamiliar.
None of them are tall like you’d expect in Manhattan. They’re clearly residential, with a few larger buildings in the distance that hint at a more cosmopolitan skyline.
There’s nothing for it. I have to move.
And for the first time since getting out of bed, I regret doing this.
Firstly, because I’m wearing nothing substantial, and it’s proving to be an increasingly chilly night.
But secondly, there’s that voice in my head that is whining. It’s the part of me that wants me to crawl back under the comforter and wait for Teo to get home. I want to let myself be comforted by his embrace and pretend that everything is fine, actually.
It’s a dangerous thought process to let myself indulge in.
Especially when I seem to have so much trouble exercising any semblance of restraint when I’m around him.
Even now, the insanity of my thoughts during sex fills me with dread. How easy it was for me to give up and relinquish control. Relinquish my life.
Maybe I am going crazy.
But the cold air bites at my bare arms, and that whiney little voice is pushed to the back of my mind.
The streets are quiet at first. I try to stick to the main roads in the hope of calling a taxi, but none appear.
The darkness descends quickly, as if every step I take away from the bunker beckons to the night. With it, the chill begins to seep into my bones.
I move faster, forcing my legs to move toward a sprint.
Then I see it, headlights in the distance. A car, someone coming this way, and I almost stick my arm out to hail it.
But I can hear the engine, even though it must be fifteen blocks away, and it’s speeding right toward me.
No. The bunker.
I only have a split second to weigh the risks before I throw myself into the bush beside me and get as close as I can to the ground.
“Fuck!” I hiss as something sharp scrapes against my arm on the way down.
In the dimming light, I can just about make out a thickening, dark line scratched across my forearm. My fingertips darken as I touch it—definitely bleeding, then.
I have no water, no supplies. But right now, I have a bigger problem.
I count the seconds as the engine gets louder and louder before sailing past me at break-neck speeds. Far too fast for me to catch the driver but I know, inherently, who is behind the wheel.
I avoid the main roads after that.
My arm stings as I dart between residential yards, sporadically changing directions until I reach a cluster of closed storefronts and lit-up bars. Checking over my shoulder, I beeline to the fullest, hoping to lose myself in the crowd.
But there are very few patrons when I enter. Most of them look at me as I enter, as if my mere presence offends them. Still, the relief of being inside is instantaneous, and I stretch out my frozen fingers a few times to try to warm them up.
That’s when I finally notice that I’m dripping blood.
I curse under my breath as I push into the bathroom. The cut is far deeper than I would like it to be, and the blood has begun to congeal on top in a way that doesn’t look particularly healthy.
After a few minutes of running it under the tap to make sure there aren’t any lingering pieces of foliage within it, my entire arm has taken on a pinkish hue.
It’s ugly and noticeable, so I do my best to hide my arm as I finally leave the bathroom to approach the bar. There are a few other men sitting at it, seemingly fixated on the football game playing on the screen behind it.
“E-excuse me? Could I borrow your phone?”
The bartender looks me over lazily before gesturing to the corner. A decrepit-looking payphone hangs on the wall, demanding a dollar to be used.
Right. Money.
I stretch out my fingers again and straighten up. I might look half frozen, but I did shower yesterday. I’ve worked with less.
“Hey,” I say sweetly as I tap the shoulder of the guy at the bar. “You wouldn’t be able to lend a girl a dollar, would you?”
Then he turns around.
And my heart sinks to the floor.
“Well, well, well. What are the odds of this?” Luis smiles with his teeth.
I back off, already beginning to run to the door.
But Luis whistles and the patrons that were glaring at me before get to their feet and block my path.
“You’re a long way from home, Isabella,” he sneers. “You didn’t come all the way out to Long Island to see little old me, did you?”
Long Island?
But I keep my gaze steady as I watch him finish his drink and slowly stand. “You left in such a hurry last time. I thought maybe I’d given you the wrong impression.”
“I tend to bounce when things get a bit heated,” I quip back, sparing a glance at the only other exit behind the bar. A staff-only sign is plastered over it. “I don’t really have the stomach for it.”
“But your little boyfriend does,” Luis continues. “Did you see what he did to my men? I bet you watched, didn’t you.”
I swallow back a retaliation. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“How much do you think Teo Vitale would pay to get his little plaything back?”
Everything within me is screaming at me to run, to get away. This isn’t a situation I can talk myself out of. This is a situation I’ll be lucky to survive.
But I’m outnumbered and unprepared, and there’s no way that I can make it behind the bar before Luis can grab me.
So instead, I say, “I have no business with the Guild.”
A few of the cartel snigger at this.
“No? Could have fooled some of us.”
I swallow. “I’m with the Prince’s Hand.”
Luis’ eyes flicker dangerously. “I know who you are, Isabella Natali. I know who your brother is, too.”
“Then you know he would reward you handsomely for my safe return to Manhattan.”
This spurs another round of laughter.
“Do you know what your brother did this afternoon?” Luis begins to circle me. “Rumor has it, he burned down a Guild casino in broad daylight.”
Fuck. No. Leon. I said buy me some time, not start a war.
“A casino in Brooklyn, no less. Now, I hate the Guild as much as the next guy. But the cartel? Well, we own Brooklyn. And your brother just pissed in our backyard.”
It seems like the wrong time to inform him that Brooklyn is resolutely owned by the Guild, although the words bite at the tip of my tongue.
No. I can’t antagonize. Only delay. I can only keep him talking.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“You dumb slut. You really thought we would just hand you back over to your brother?”
It’s only when my back hits the wall that I realize I’ve been retreating. “N-no.”
“SPEAK UP.”
I raise my head as confidently as I can. “What will you do to me?”
This is the right question to ask, it seems, as Luis resumes his casual pacing. “I’m sure my friends and I could come up with a few things.”
Maybe I can just keep him talking.
“I’m worth more to you alive.”
Luis steps forward, very purposefully stepping into my space. “Oh, don’t you worry. I very much intend on keeping you alive.”
I remember thinking once that Luis was quite handsome. But here, up close and personal, he is truly the most ugly thing I’ve ever seen. He has malicious eyes that feed off every expression of fear he can rip from me.
I wonder, awfully, if this is the last face I’ll see.
If it is, I vow to take those terrible eyes with me.
I flex my fingers again. My nails are sharp as claws. Yes. I can do it. I can get at least one good shot in before…well.
The others are closing in around us now. The patrons by the door abandon their posts to get a closer look. The men at the bar are jeering at Luis’ shoulders, half whispering obscenities into his ear.
Will I have a chance to claw at them, too? Or will they watch me brutalize their leader and decide it’s safer to keep my hands restrained?
If they have any foresight at all, they’ll do that first.
“You know, I really thought the cartel was smarter than this,” I say stubbornly. “You think the casino is all my brother intends to burn? You lay one finger on me, and your ships will sink to the bottom of the bay.”
Luis very pointedly lifts a single finger and runs it down my cheek. The touch burns in a festering kind of way as if he’s smudged acid across my skin.
“Your brother barely has enough manpower to take on the Guild. He wouldn’t get within ten blocks of our docks before we destroyed that fanciful ego of his.”
His finger withdraws, and I let out a small gasp of relief.
How could I have been welcoming death only a few hours ago?
When here, right now, everything inside of me is begging for me to live. To live, damn it.
Because this man doesn’t get to kill me.
That honor goes to the only man I’ve ever truly loved.
And it's horribly cruel that this realization hits me right now. Because if I’d figured it out sooner, if I’d just stayed there in the bunker, safe and sound, I could have prevented all of this.
I could have told him. I could have begged him to kill me instead of facing oblivion without him.
Because death would be sweet if his was the last face I saw.
But the thing about death is it’s never quite so predictable. You don’t get to choose or know when you might face it.
And the cartel, well.
They’re certainly not expecting it to visit today.
But the door to the bar opens anyway, and death walks in.
And all I can do is laugh at the bitter, gorgeous irony of it all.
“Oh, you’re all fucked now.”