10. Zoe
Chapter Ten
ZOE
I made it.
The one thing that was on my mind yesterday when I stepped from the plane into the bustle of Milan to get ready for the fashion contest.
Valerie Moore came through. The road to the hotel is lined with signs featuring her and the contest details, and the competition hall is packed with contestants donning chic T-shirts emblazoned with the logo.
It’s an intelligent way of publicizing the event.
Months ago, this event was only a dream, but now I’m here to witness it live because I’m one of the contestants who made it to the grand finale.
I made it.
This is not how I thought today would be, with Virgilio not by my side, making jokes and lending me some of his confidence. But I’m happy I’m here for the both of us.
He said he would come after me, and I believed him.
He knows my hotel room, and I told them I was not coming alone, so it would be easy for him to find me or be allowed into the hotel room if he needed to clean up.
With an unflinching smile, I step through the revolving door. I search with my eyes for the room with the poster of Moore’s contest, and as I find it, I scurry down to it.
I climb the short fleet of stairs and show my tag to the doorman, who lets me in with a courtesy bow and smile.
I step into the hall, my eyes and mouth spread wide as I take in the beautiful chaos happening to set the space up for the main event. I try not to get in the way of the guys carrying lights across the room. While someone hisses at me for being a little too late moving away, the moment this guy sees the tag around my neck, he mellows.
I know my tag says I belong here. And yet, I still feel like an outcast.
I’ve never seen this much glitter in one place or this many people. We are here to meet and greet Valerie and get accustomed to the hall and its setting.
I go to a corner to watch, making sure I can get a view of everything happening. I will never forget this day—the day my entire life changed.
I watch the smokescreens being placed behind what will soon be the backdrop to the chairs on the sides of the runway.
I let myself dream of having my own show and start preparing the hall the way I would want it to be. I would make the runway less traditional. There would be classical music instead of the usual loud bangs, and each outfit would tell a unique story.
Stories to be told. That will be my brand.
While Valerie Moore's designs describe people's personalities, I want to tell stories with mine. I want someone to pick up my design and feel seen, heard, and appreciated.
I smile and tilt my eyes to see a group of contestants with their tags in the corner, with wild hair and bold styles. It is then that I see it—that I see him.
My father, in his cop uniform.
My blood turns to ice, instantly causing my body to shiver as I watch him glare in different directions, undoubtedly searching for me.
I’m too shocked to look or turn away. Then, his gaze finds me. He narrows his eyes as he sneers at me. I bolt, not knowing where I’m headed but needing to be away from him and ensure he doesn’t catch me.
This is my dream, and I will not let him take it away.
I hurtle past Valerie’s team putting things together until I find myself running through a door that spills into a hallway.
“Stop running, Zoe. It will only make your punishment worse when I catch you,” my father growls as he pushes through the door, just in time to see me push through another slightly open door and go into a room.
I slam the door shut, resting all my weight on it to protect myself because I know he will try to break through it to get me. My heart pounds and I feel tears as he bangs on the door.
“Come out, or this will only get worse,” he hollers.
I turn to look for something to blockthe door, but I see people instead.
Men seated at a longtable in the corner of the room. The light isnot bright enough to reveal much of their faces, but it isbright enough to be reflected on themetal of the gunsin their holster pockets.
My knees buckle as the eyes of one meet mine, then he spurts something in Italian, and another responds in Russian, something that sounds like a cuss word.
My father is a cop. I know bad guys when I see them.
I just ran into a den of mobsters having a private meeting.
My heart thunders in my chest with the hard bang of my father’s fists on the door. He manages to force it open, sending me to the floor.
He steps in, and I scramble to get on my feet and away from him. In the chaos, I hear someone shouting, “He’s a fucking cop!” Then, the sound of a gun ricochets, and my father’s body drops to the floor.
I slap my hand against my mouth to stifle my scream.
“What are you doing here, little girl?” A voice bellows from the table, with thick slurs of an Italian accent. He shot my father. There’s still smoke puffing out of his gun.
“I… I… I was trying to get away from him,” my eyes drop to my father’s lifeless body, and the feeling of relief floats through me, but it’s masked quickly by the terror of my situation.
“It doesn’t matter,” he clicks, “You have seen too much,” he aims his gun at me, and I scramble like a terrified rat to the corner of the room, bracing for my death.
“Wait,” the accent is different and forceful, but not enough for me to make it out yet. “We can use her.” That’s a Russian accent.
“I don’t like loose ends,” the Italian snarks.
“I will tighten those ends if it gets to that,” the Russian reassures, then snaps his fingers.
Footfalls pour in and then close in on me. I’m too numb to lift my head and peer at the faces attached to the pair of feet. So numb that, as their hands clasp around my upper arms, I do not fight back.
I’m alive, that’s enough for now.
For a minute there, I thought it was the end. I thought I was going to die just like my father.
They drag me on my feet, my black boots now too heavy for me to pull, and my white dress making me feel like a lamb to be slaughtered.
My eyes catch my father’s body in his uniform, the one he has used as a fa?ade to abuse me all these years. The same uniform that just got him killed.
At least there is one less monster in the world.