23. Victoria
VICTORIA
We leave through the side entrance.
Cold morning air meets my face, and for one brief second, I almost stop walking.
The air fills my lungs, clean and entirely my own.
I walk down the steps with the two guards behind me.
The estate stretches wide and quiet ahead. Gardeners move near the fountain. A maid crosses the far terrace with folded linen against her chest. Beyond the cypress trees, the old greenhouse sits with mist clinging to its glass panels.
And beyond that, the service road.
My heart climbs into my throat.
Do not look at the gate.
I look at the gravel path.
At the damp lavender along the border.
At my own shoes.
The greenhouse grows closer.
Men stand near an open utility box beside the wall. One kneels with a tool in his hand. Another holds a coil of black cable over one shoulder. A white van blocks part of the service gate.
The gate is open.
Only a little.
Enough.
My skin goes cold.
The older guard moves closer to my side.
“We’ll turn here.”
I nod.
We follow the path beside the greenhouse.
My steps remain even.
Ten more yards and I lose the gate.
Eight.
Six.
One of the repairmen snaps, “Cut the power again.”
“I did.”
“Then why is this still live?”
The kneeling man jerks back with a curse. His tool drops and skids over the stone.
Both guards turn.
I do not think.
I move.
Not fast at first.
I step off the path and pass behind the hedge beside the greenhouse. Wet branches drag across my sleeve. The ground softens under my shoes.
“Miss Vitale?”
I keep going.
“Victoria.”
The name cracks behind me.
I run.
My shoes slide in the mud. I catch myself against the greenhouse wall and push forward. Pain flashes through my palm where glass or metal cuts the skin, but I do not stop.
Men shout near the utility box.
The service gate is ahead.
The white van still blocks part of it. A worker stands at the back, staring at me with a coil of cable in his hands.
“Move,” I say.
He moves.
I squeeze between the van and the iron post. My shoulder hits the gate hard enough to send pain down my arm.
Then I am outside.
Outside.
The service road opens in front of me.
No marble floors.
No guards ahead.
No Lorenzo waiting at the end of the hall.
Only wet gravel and trees.
I run.
Behind me, voices rise. A whistle cuts the morning air. A man yells for the gate to be shut.
It does not shut.
The van is still in the way.
I run until my breath tears in my chest. The road curves between trees, hiding the estate for a moment. I almost fall twice. Mud splashes the back of my trousers. My hair comes loose from its pins and sticks to my face.
I do not look back.
If I look back, I will see the house.
If I see the house, I may remember him.
His voice.
His hand.
The way he let me go last night when I asked.
I push harder.
The service road ends at a wider lane with no sidewalk. Cars pass too fast. I stumble onto the shoulder and wave at the first truck.
It does not stop.
The second car swerves around me.
“Please,” I gasp, but the word disappears beneath traffic.
A blue pickup appears around the bend.
I step into the road before courage leaves me.
The driver slams the brakes.
The truck stops close enough for me to see the rust along the hood.
The man inside leans across the seat and lowers the window.
“Are you insane?”
“I need help.” My voice breaks. “Please. I need to get to the city.”
His eyes move over my face, my clothes, my muddy shoes.
“What happened to you?”
I swallow.
“My husband.”
The man stares at me.
“What?”
“My husband.”
The lie tastes strange.
Or maybe it isn’t a lie anymore.
His eyes narrow.
“Did he hurt you?”
I hesitate.
That is enough of an answer.
The driver looks past me toward the road.
Toward the trees.
Toward whatever he thinks might be coming.
“Jesus Christ.”
For a second, I think he is going to drive away.
Then he unlocks the door.
“Get in.”
I open the door and climb inside before he can change his mind.
The truck smells of cigarettes and old coffee. A rosary hangs from the mirror, swinging when he pulls away.
I twist in the seat and look through the rear window.
No black cars.
No Lorenzo or men running.
The estate disappears behind trees.
My hands begin to shake.
The driver glances over once. “You got a name?”
I grip the seat belt.
“Anna.”
He does not believe me.
He drives anyway.
For a while, neither of us speaks.
The road widens. Trees give way to warehouses, gas stations, traffic lights, and people waiting at bus stops with hoods pulled up against the cold.
The city rises ahead in pieces.
I should feel safer with every mile.
I do not.
Every dark car makes my chest tighten. Every phone in someone’s hand looks dangerous. Every red light feels too long.
The driver clears his throat.
“You want police?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“No police.”
He studies me again, then faces the road.
“Train station?”
“Yes.”
He takes another turn.
The station appears ten minutes later, grey and crowded, with taxis lined at the curb and people moving through the glass doors.
He pulls over.
I reach for the handle, then stop.
“I don’t have money.”
He reaches into the cup holder and hands me a folded twenty.
I stare at it.
“Take it.”
My throat burns.
“Thank you.”
His hand returns to the wheel.
“Anna?”
I pause.
He looks at me, and for the first time, his voice softens.
“Don’t go back.”
I step out before a tear can find its way down my cheek.
The truck pulls away.
I stand on the curb with the twenty-dollar bill in my fist while people move around me. No one knows my name or where I’m from. No one knows that a man in a mansion outside the city will soon notice my absence.
The glass doors slide open.
I walk inside.
Warm air hits my face. Announcements echo above me. Suitcases roll over the floor. A child cries near a vending machine. A woman laughs into her phone while holding two coffees.
Normal life.
I almost forgot it could sound this loud.
The relief lasts less than a second.
My skin prickles.
I scan the crowd without meaning to.
A man in a dark coat stands near the ticket machines, speaking into his phone. An older woman drags a suitcase toward the platforms. Two transit officers linger beside the entrance doors.
Ordinary people.
Ordinary morning.
Yet every unfamiliar face feels dangerous.
Did the guards radio ahead?
Did Lorenzo already know which station I would choose?
I lower my head and keep walking.
A burst of laughter makes me flinch.
Someone’s phone rings behind me.
My pulse jumps before I can stop it.
I hate what he has done to me.
I hate that freedom already feels hunted.
I go straight to the ticket machines.
My fingers move over the screen.
Milwaukee.
Leaving soon.
I choose it because that’s the only place my mind is right now, and I do not have time to choose wisely.
The machine takes the twenty. A ticket prints.
Track 6.
I hold the paper in both hands.
My feet carry me toward the platform.
Past the coffee stand.
Past a man reading a newspaper.
Past two officers near the entrance.
I do not look at them.
The doors to the platform slide open, and cold air rushes in.
The train waits beside the track with people boarding. Coats. Bags. Ordinary faces. The conductor stands by the door scanning tickets.
Three people ahead of me.
Two.
One.
My heart beats so hard I feel it in my throat.
The woman before me steps onto the train.
The conductor turns to me.
I hand him the ticket.
He scans it.
The machine beeps.
“Car three,” he says. “Left side.”
I take one step.
A hand closes around my wrist.
My whole body stops.
Not a painful grip, but a certain one.
I turn.
The man beside me wears a dark coat. I have seen him outside the laboratory. Once by the clinic wing. Once near the lower corridor where Lorenzo’s men wait without speaking.
One of his.
He releases my wrist before anyone notices.
“Miss Vitale,” he says.
The platform noise continues around us.
The conductor looks past me. “Ma’am?”
I stare at the open train door.
One more step.
That is all.
The man lowers his voice.
“Please don’t make me do this here.”
My eyes move to his coat.
His hand slips inside enough for me to see the gun.
Behind him, near the stairs, another man watches us.
Then another near the vending machines.
My stomach drops.
The conductor frowns. “Are you boarding?”
I look at the train.
At the open door.
At the seat beyond it.
At the life I almost reach.
The speaker crackles overhead.
“Final call for boarding.”
The man beside me speaks again, quiet enough for only me to hear.
“Don Nero is waiting.”
I close my eyes.
For one second, I let myself feel it.
The road.
The truck.
The ticket in my hand.
The door in front of me.
I almost make it.
When I open my eyes, the conductor steps back.
The train door closes.