Isabella #3
Behind us, Giovano coughs wetly.
“Latch,” he grits out.
My eyes dart to the side. A tiny rusted latch, almost invisible beneath grime and a strip of clear tape sealing the frame together, is visible. I dig my nail along the tape to peel it away from the frame, the tackiness sticking to my fingers.
The footsteps beyond the room grow louder, following a distant shout.
Matteo whispers, “Mom.”
“I know.”
I shove the metal latch away from the window and try again. Pain sparks through my hands as the frame jerks, then rises with a shriek that feels loud enough to wake the dead. It catches halfway, something farther up the channel blocking it from fully opening.
A voice outside the interrogation room snaps, “What was that?”
I bend, gather Matteo into my arms, and lift him toward the open window.
“Feet first,” I whisper.
I hoist him higher, guiding his legs through the narrow opening.
Cold night air rushes in, damp and earthy compared to the room behind us.
Matteo whimpers when his knee catches on the frame.
I angle him with one hand on his back, the other bracing his thigh.
He slips through and dangles on the other side.
I lean through the window as far as I can and lower him until his sneakers find something beneath him.
I cannot see clearly in the dark, but I feel the tension leave his body once he finds solid ground.
I let go of his hands slowly before moving back to turn my body around and hook my leg through the opening.
Behind me, the interrogation room door slams against the inside wall.
My body goes cold.
Giovano’s voice cuts across the room, suddenly loud. “Took you long enough, you useless bastards.”
I look back and see one of the enforcers step inside, gun half-raised. The plastic between us blurs the scene, but not enough. Giovano remains slumped in the chair, his head angled toward the man as the gun is slowly turned toward him.
“You planning on finishing the job, or are you just going to stand there all night?” my uncle says. Even half-dead, he sounds irritated.
The guard snarls and moves toward him. “Sounds like you’re begging for a bullet in your skull.”
My stomach clenches violently.
I can’t watch.
Instead, I turn back to the window and force myself through the small opening.
The frame bites into my ribs, the old wood warped from years of damp weather and neglect, the sill jagged beneath my palms. Splintered wood catches my sweater, tearing the fabric near my wrist. A sharp edge scrapes skin, and heat blooms there, but I bite back a curse and wiggle harder.
Behind me, laughter erupts out of Giovano. “Go on, then. All you Contis are cowards, anyway.”
The sound is cut off by the sickening crack of the butt of a gun hitting flesh. My uncle lets out a choked sound from the impact.
Panic becomes momentum. I twist hard, ignoring the hot rip of pain across my side, and tumble out through the window.
The world drops beneath me faster than I expect.
For one weightless second, cold air rushes over my face as my hands reach blindly for something that isn’t there.
Then I hit the damp ground on the other side.
Pain flashes white-hot through my hip and shoulder.
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, the world blurring instantly.
Matteo drops beside me immediately. “Mom!”
“I’m okay,” I gasp out.
I lift my head up to look at him. His face is pale in the dark, eyes huge, cheeks wet. His little hands hover over me like he wants to help but does not know where to touch without hurting me. Then a quick flash of light shoots through the dark, following the sound of a gun going off.
For a second, I cannot breathe.
The sound of the shot seems to stretch endlessly, bouncing off the side of the safehouse and ripping through the night.
My fingers dig into the wet earth as tears form and fall from my eyes.
I clamp one hand over my own mouth, forcing air back into my lungs through the pain rippling through my body.
Matteo flinches so hard, he nearly falls into me. I grab him with my good arm and pull us both up from the ground, pressing his face into my shoulder before he can look toward the window as I stand.
Shouting erupts from inside.
I do not have time to look back and see if there is blood splattering the plastic sheets.
I only have time to move. We move beneath the line of windows, keeping our bodies low toward the wet earth.
The open grounds stretch somewhere ahead, but I cannot see enough through the darkness and fog to know which direction gives us the best chance of getting out of here.
We reach the corner of the building, and I press him flat behind me.
My breath comes hard and fast, but I force myself to look around.
The supply drop is still in motion near the opposite side of the building.
Men are walking back and forth with crates in their arms surrounded by three transporter trucks.
Two SUVs sit with their rear doors open as another set of enforcers continue to pack the trunk with wrapped boxes.
I pull back and look at Matteo. He is crying silently, tears tracking down his face while he bites his lower lip to keep from making noise. That sight goes through me with such force, I almost double over.
I cup his face with both hands. “Listen to me. We’re going to run to those trees. Do you see them?”
He nods shakily, his eyes darting away from mine for a brief moment and over to the trees.
“If you hear shouting, just keep running. If you hear anything, keep running. Do not stop until you get to the road.”
His eyes widen. “What if you fall?”
I press my forehead to his. “Then you keep running.”
“No,” he chokes out.
“Matteo.”
“No.” His whisper is fierce now, terrified and furious all at once. “I’m not leaving you.”
I do not have time for this. I do not have time for the wild, aching pride that rises in me. “You will do what I tell you.”
His face crumples.
“I will be right behind you,” I say, hating myself for needing to prepare him for the possibility that I might not make it out of this with him. “But if something happens, you need to run until you hit the road. Flag someone down. They will help you. You do not come back for me.”
His little hands grip my wrists. “Mom.”
I kiss his forehead hard. “Run.”
We bolt.
The first few steps are agony. My hip protests violently as I force myself into an unsteady jog, pain tearing hot through the joint with every impact of my foot against the wet earth.
My shoulder screams from where I hit the ground, the muscles there already stiffening, already warning me that I am asking too much from a body that has been starved of sleep, bruised by captivity, and dragged through terror until terror itself has become fuel.
Matteo’s hand is clamped in mine so tightly, our fingers feel fused together.
He is half running, half stumbling beside me, his short legs struggling to match the pace I set.
Every few seconds, I feel him falter, and each time, I tighten my grip, hauling him forward with a force that will undoubtedly make me apologize later.
The wet grass slips beneath our feet. Fog hangs thick over the property, dense enough to conceal the full perimeter from view beyond the first stretch of trees surrounding the safehouse.
It should help us. It should swallow us whole and keep us concealed in the dark like some merciful beast with a soft mouth.
Just as we cross the first hundred feet, a flashlight swings toward us.
“Hey!”
The shout cracks through the night.
Matteo stumbles. For one horrible second, his hand tears away from mine, his body pitching forward toward the ground. I grab him before that happens and yank him upright so hard, he gasps from pain, his little shoulder jerking beneath my grip.
A gunshot rings out from behind us.
The sound explodes through the fog, too loud, too close. The ground near my left foot spits mud as a bullet strikes, wet earth bursting upward and splattering my ankle.
Matteo screams.
I pull him harder. “Run!”
The tree line seems impossibly far away, both out of reach and just close enough to make hope seem possible. My legs pump faster even as my hip threatens to buckle. My breath comes ragged. Somewhere behind us, men are shouting over one another, the sound distorted by fog and trees.
“East side!”
“Cut them off!”
“Do not lose them!”
As soon as we clear the first set of trees, more gunfire goes off. Bark splinters into the air near my head, ricocheting around me like macabre confetti. Tiny fragments sting my cheek and neck. I duck instinctively, dragging Matteo down with me for half a step before forcing us upright again.
Branches whip at my arms and face. Thorns snag my sweater and tear at the already ruined fabric. Roots rise out of the dark like hands trying to trip us. Matteo sobs once, only once, then clamps down on the sound so fiercely, I feel sick with pride.
Another bullet slams into a tree somewhere behind us.
The impact sends birds exploding upward from the branches, their wings beating frantically through the fog.
The sound adds to the chaos, a dizzying cacophony of gunfire, shouting, snapping branches, and the ragged, animalistic sounds of our breathing.
I do not know where Elio is.
That thought flashes through me with unwanted force.
Is he behind us?
Is he the one shouting orders?
Is he trying to stop them from shooting, or is he standing at the helm because I dared to run with his son?
Matteo is stumbling more than running now, his whole body shaking, his face drained of color.
Then the trees break and we spill out onto the shoulder of a busy road.
Cars rush past in both directions, headlights cutting through the fog in bright, blinding bands.
The sound of them hits with a different kind of distortion—engines roaring, tires hissing over damp pavement, the normal world moving at full speed while my son and I flee from gunfire.