Isabella
Tonight is the night.
He said it as a complaint, some bored little muttering about their routine he didn’t think mattered being overheard because women like me are supposed to be too frightened to do anything except pace, cry, and wait for the men with guns to decide what happens next.
A prisoner like me is supposed to look at a safehouse crawling with enforcers and see impossibility.
Men like that are so often ruined by what they assume.
For the last week I have studied everything. If things go as I predict they will, the hallway leading down to this room will be lightly guarded, if at all, while most of the enforcers will be outside bringing in the crates.
Their attention will be scattered to the outer perimeter and the vehicles bringing in whatever logistics are helping to keep this place fed, armed, and operational.
Matteo and I haven’t posed a threat thus far, and that has been deliberate.
We have remained quiet enough to be underestimated, giving each and every guard enough time to grow used to us acting scared and docile.
Hopefully, it will lead to no one questioning pulling additional hands from our rotation and allocating them for the drop-off, giving us enough time to escape without being caught before our feet ever reach the front porch.
The only problem will be Elio…
I haven’t seen him since we had sex, but that doesn’t mean he’s been absent. My eyes slowly shift to the camera and its blinking light. I cannot predict him anymore, not completely, at least.
Which makes him more dangerous than all the other factors I’m working against combined. If he were to catch Matteo and me, I’m not sure what would happen.
Separation at the very least, I would imagine.
I look down at my son asleep beside me on the narrow cot. His cheek is pressed into the thin pillow, one hand tucked beneath his chin, dark hair falling into his eyes. Even in sleep, he looks tense.
He should be in his own bed under his glow-in-the-dark stars with his soccer cleats tossed carelessly near the closet because he never remembers to put them away no matter how many times I ask.
He should be complaining about math homework, not worrying if we’ll both live to see tomorrow.
My hand moves through his hair. I touch him lightly, barely brushing the strands from his forehead.
He stirs immediately, his fingers tightening around the thin blanket covering him.
I freeze as I watch him shift his body around, one hand hovering above his shoulder while I wait for his breathing to deepen back into sleep.
“Shh, it’s okay,” I whisper.
When he relaxes again, I slip silently off the cot and stand.
The room is still mostly dark, washed in the dim red blink of the camera and the thin gray strip of light spilling in from the hallway beneath the door. I know every inch of this place by now, memorized by my time spent pacing until my feet hurt.
I kneel by the cot and reach beneath the thin mattress pad toward the far corner closest to the wall.
My fingers close around the bent piece of metal from the underside of the frame, the one I worked loose over the last three nights after lights out.
It took patience, more than I thought I still had.
Every scrape of metal against metal sounded deafening in the dark, every tiny movement stretched over minutes that felt close to hours while Matteo slept curled into my side and the camera blinked its slow red eye above us.
When I pull the metal out now, I rotate it in my hand a few times.
It is not much, just a thin, warped strip with one jagged edge and a slight curve where I bent it back and forth until the metal finally snapped free. It would not win me a fight against a trained enforcer or even help me pry open the lock on the door.
But the serrated edge is sharp enough to draw blood if I need to defend myself.
I tuck the metal up into my tattered sleeve, sliding it along the inside of my forearm where the loose fabric hides it.
The cold press of it against my skin steadies me more than I’m expecting. I stand slowly, keeping my movements controlled as I move back to where Matteo is.
I kneel beside him and gently shake his shoulder.
“Matteo,” I whisper.
His eyes flutter open, unfocused and heavy. For one second, he looks like any other sleepy child pulled from a dream too early. “Mom? What’s going on?”
“Shh.” I place a finger against my lips immediately. “Quiet, baby. I need you to listen to me.”
Fear cuts through his sleep. It breaks my heart to see that sudden realization of where he is wash over him. He should be grumpy and limp-limbed, whining about wanting five more minutes of sleep before school, not alert and ready to obey.
His brows pull together. “What’s happening?”
I force a small smile onto my face, hating the lie even as I use it. “Remember that backyard game we played coming back from your soccer game? When we climbed the fence?”
He nods, slower this time. His eyes flick to the door for a brief moment then come back to me.
I pull in a slow breath. “We’re going to have to do that again.”
His little throat works as he swallows. “Are we leaving?”
I hesitate for a second before answering.
The problem is I do not know if we will get that far. I do not know if tonight ends with freedom or punishment or Elio standing at the end of the hallway with betrayal written across his face, his dark eyes hard with anger while his body blocks the only way out.
But we have to try.
I cup his face in both hands and whisper, “Yes, but I’m going to need you to be a very brave boy. Okay?”
His eyes fill with unshed tears, but he swallows them back before they can fall. He nods his head slightly. “Okay.”
I squeeze his cheeks gently, my thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. “You need to do exactly what I say. If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to hide, you hide. If I tell you not to look, you don’t. Understand?”
He nods again.
I grip his chin gently, making sure he hears the part that matters most. “Matteo.”
His eyes lock on mine. “I understand.”
“Good boy.”
I help him sit up and pull the oversized sweater I begged one of the guards to get him a few days ago over his head.
It swallows him, the sleeves hanging over his hands even when I roll the cuffs up his arms and smooth the fabric over his chest.
I grab his sneakers and slide them onto his feet, tightening the knots and checking each lace with obsessive care.
It is a ridiculous thing to focus on, but the panic racing through me has to go somewhere. If I let it flood my system, I will drown in it before that door even opens.
I cross to the door and lower myself to the floor to watch the light on the other side glow beneath the frame. A shadow passes by our door, followed quickly by a few more sets.
Faintly in the distance, I can hear masculine voices talking. I get back up to my feet and close my fist in a tight curl. Then I pound it against the door relentlessly.
For a moment, nothing happens and all I can hear is the sound of my fist against metal and the pounding of my own heart.
When footsteps finally approach, I quickly move away from the door. It swings open and a slice of a man’s face appears beyond it.
I recognize him instantly, the one who avoids looking at Matteo every time he brings us food because the guilt has clearly already found a home in him.
It’s perfect to use to my advantage.
“What?” he mutters at me.
I make my voice frantic and urgent sounding. “My son is sick.”
The guard’s eyes flick past me to Matteo, my own gaze following. My son is hunched perfectly on the edge of the cot with his head down, one hand pressed to his stomach while his shoulders bunch up near his ears.
The guard stiffens. “What do you mean, sick?”
“He’s really dizzy,” I lie. “I think whatever was in the food earlier got him sick. He needs to see a doctor.”
He hesitates. He looks over his shoulder toward the noise coming from down the hallway, the noise more distant. No one is near enough to help him decide.
“I can call someone to drive down to—”
“No.” I let panic sharpen my voice. “Look at him. Please. Just take him to see a doctor at the hospital.”
The guard swallows. His eyes dart around my face, clearly searching for some kind of discrepancy. When he finds nothing, he pushes the door further open. “Step back from the door.”
I do, giving him enough room to cross the threshold without touching me. Behind him, the door yawns open just enough for me to see down the rest of the hallway. Instead of the usual set of guards lingering just beyond the doorway, all I see are dark shadows.
Perfect.
I move the second he starts toward Matteo. I slip the metal piece from my sleeve into my hand and then charge for him. I do not go for his throat when my body slams into the back of his. That would be far too messy to deal with and too loud if he got a scream out before I can finish.
Instead, I slash up the side of his face, near his eye. He hisses and instinctively jerks back. I drive my shoulder into his shoulder from behind and shove him down to the ground with every ounce of strength terror has gifted me.
He stumbles and falls to his knees.
“Run, Matteo!” I whisper.
He bolts.
I catch the guard’s arm with both hands before he can grab my son and twist, using the motion my father drilled into me until the joint pops in my hold.
The guard gasps in pain and arches to the side to yank himself from my grasp. I slam the heel of my palm into his nose right as his mouth opens to scream.
He falls onto the floor with a choked curse.
I am already moving before he can try to get up again. I find Matteo huddled in one of the shadowed corners of the hallway. I grab his hand and pull him with me. The corridor is dim, lit by low strips of light along the floor.
Most of the noise comes from the far end near the lower entrance in the opposite direction I pull us in.
Matteo’s hand is slick in mine, his breathing turning ragged. I duck my head and pull him close to the wall to keep him out of view because I do not know whether Elio is watching the feeds or not.