25. Victoria
VICTORIA
Rocco brings the phone in a black cloth bag.
He sets it on the table between Lorenzo and me, then steps back with both hands folded in front of him.
“It’s clean,” he says. “Temporary line. Location blocked. Signal bounces twice before it connects.”
Lorenzo does not look at him. His eyes stay on me.
“Dial.”
My fingers are cold when I pick up the phone.
For one second, I forget the number.
My mother’s number has lived in my hands for years, but now my mind goes blank, stripped empty by fear, blood, mud, and the train door closing in my face.
Then it comes back.
I press each digit slowly.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
On the third ring, she answers.
“Hello?”
My throat closes.
One word from her, and I am not in the chapel anymore.
I am twelve again, standing barefoot in our kitchen while she complains about my father leaving cigar ash in the sink.
I am sixteen, pretending I do not hear her crying in the laundry room.
I am twenty-four, wearing a wedding dress and watching her smile because she thinks she is giving me away to safety.
“Mum.”
Silence.
Then a broken breath.
“Victoria?”
I press my hand over my mouth.
Lorenzo’s gaze lowers to my fingers, then returns to my face. He says nothing.
“Mum,” I whisper.
“Oh my God.” Her voice cracks. “Oh my God, Victoria. Where are you? Where have you been? I have called everyone. Francesco said?—”
“What did Francesco say?”
A pause.
“He said you were unwell,” she says. “He said you were recovering somewhere private after the wedding incident.”
The wedding incident.
Not my escape, or his men shooting at me.
Not the bride running for her life through traffic.
“He lied,” I say.
“I know.”
The answer stills me.
My grip tightens around the phone. “You know?”
“I know my daughter,” she says, quieter now. “You would not vanish for over a month because of nerves. You would not leave me with nothing unless you were hiding from someone.”
My eyes burn.
“I tried to call.”
“I know. I kept my phone beside me every night. I thought maybe you had thrown yours away. I thought maybe you were afraid it was being watched.”
“It was.”
She lets out a small sound. Pain, maybe. Or guilt.
“Victoria, where are you?”
I look at Lorenzo.
He waits.
There is no threat in his face. That almost makes it worse.
“I can’t tell you,” I say.
My mother goes quiet again.
In that silence, I hear the house around her. A faint clink of glass. The distant murmur of a television. A door closing somewhere far behind her.
“Are you alone?” I ask.
“For now.”
The answer slides under my skin.
For now.
Lorenzo notices the change in my face. His attention narrows.
“Mum,” I say carefully, “has Francesco come to see you?”
“No.”
“Has he sent anyone?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Victoria, I have lived beside men such as Francesco long enough to know when I am being watched.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
She exhales. “No. He has not come.”
The answer should calm me.
It does not.
Francesco would come for her.
He would come with flowers first. A polite smile. An apology for frightening her. Then he would sit in her living room, drink her coffee, and remind me through her voice that no one I love is out of reach.
But he has not.
Not once.
My skin prickles.
“Why?” I whisper.
“What?”
“Why hasn’t he come for you?”
“Maybe he knows I have no idea where you are.”
“No. He wouldn’t care.”
Lorenzo’s attention deepens.
My mother lowers her voice. “Victoria, listen to me. I think Francesco believes you ran because of what you heard.”
My heart kicks.
“What do you know?”
“I now know enough.”
“Mum.”
“I know you were afraid of him before the wedding. I know you told your friends not to come. I know you ran before the vows. And I know Francesco has been too calm for a man publicly humiliated by his bride.”
Her words settle cold inside me.
“What has he done?” I ask.
“He called twice the first week. After that, nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Not even anger?”
“No.”
I look down at the broken blue ceramic on the table, still beside the train ticket.
Francesco’s silence feels worse than a threat.
“Mum,” I say, “is anyone making you say this?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
“Mum.”
“Victoria, please.”
“Are you safe?”
She does not answer.
The silence presses against my ear until I stand without meaning to. The chair scrapes against the floor.
Lorenzo rises too.
“Mum, pack a bag.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Right now. Passport, cash, whatever jewellery you can sell. Leave through the back.”
“Where would I even go?”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“To the person who still answers on the first ring.”
The silence that follows tells me she understands.
“Victoria...”
“Go to the one person who always stands beside us when things fall apart.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if I run, they will know you called.”
I stop breathing.
The television murmurs faintly behind her.
Then a sound comes through the line.
Not a voice.
A knock.
One quiet knock on wood.
My mother’s breath catches.
“I have to go.”
“No. Mum, wait.”
“I love you, Victoria.”
“Mum—”
“I love you. Stay alive. Whatever you have to do, stay alive.”
The line clicks dead.
I keep the phone pressed to my ear.
The empty tone hums against my skin.
Rocco steps forward, but Lorenzo lifts one hand, and he stops.
I lower the phone slowly.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then I look at Lorenzo.
“Francesco hasn’t touched her.”
His jaw tightens, but there is no surprise in his face. Only the look of a man hearing what he already knew.
“He should have,” I say. “You know he should have.”
“Yes.”
The word is quiet.
Worse than denial.
I swallow hard. “She was scared.”
“I heard.”
“She said if she ran, they would know I called.”
“I heard that too.”
The room tilts a little beneath me.
My mother is alive. That should be enough. It is not. Not when her voice had to shrink inside her own home.
Lorenzo reaches for the phone and hands it to Ricco.
“Burn it.”
Rocco nods and leaves.
I stare at the door after him.
“My mother is not safe.”
“No.”
The honesty hurts. I prefer it anyway.
“What are you going to do?”
Lorenzo looks at me for a long second.
“I’m on it. There must be a reason Francesco is leaving her alone.”
“And if he already has someone near her?”
His mouth hardens.
“Then I find that person first.”
I nod, but my legs feel hollow.
Three days pass before Lorenzo allows me back into the laboratory.
Three long days of closed doors, guarded hallways, and unanswered questions.
By then, the bruises on my arm had turned from purple to a tired yellow. The cut across my palm no longer stings unless I forget and grip too hard. The doctor says it will heal cleanly.
Nothing to worry about.
That is what everyone keeps saying.
Nothing to worry about, while guards stand closer when I walk.
Nothing to worry about, while every corridor grows quiet before I enter it.
Nothing to worry about, while the story of my almost-escape travels through the estate faster than smoke.
I feel it before I reach the lab.
The looks.
The pause in conversation.
The way men pretend not to know exactly how far I got.
Elena sees me first.
She stands near the supply counter with a clipboard tucked under one arm, chewing gum with the confidence of a woman who has survived too many bad decisions to be impressed by mine.
Her eyes drop to my fading bruises, then lift to my face.
“Well, well,” she says. “The runaway bride returns from her grand tour of poor choices.”
I stop in front of her. “Good morning to you too.”
“Good morning?” She laughs, loud enough for two technicians to look over. “Girl, you have got nerves. Real nerves. Not regular nerves. Expensive nerves.”
I fight a smile and lose.
Elena points the end of her pen at me. “You tried to escape the Don in a city he breathes on and people ask permission to sneeze.”
“That dramatic?”
“Dramatic?” She presses one hand to her chest. “Victoria, sweetheart, there are pigeons downtown that probably report to him. Rats in the subway wearing tiny little wires. You think you were boarding that train? Please. That train was probably waiting for his blessing.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Elena’s mouth opens. “There she is. Still alive and laughing. God must enjoy chaos.”
I look toward the sealed doors of the lab. “People are talking.”
“Of course they are talking. You gave them material.” She leans closer and lowers her voice. “Half these people have been here years and the boldest thing they’ve done is steal coffee pods.”
“I didn’t plan it.”
“That makes it worse. You improvised treason before breakfast.”
My smile fades a little.
Elena notices. Her expression softens, though only for a second. She is not the type to stay gentle where anyone can see.
She nudges my shoulder with hers. “Listen. I joke because this place is allergic to normal conversation. But don’t do that again.”
I meet her eyes.
She chews once, slower. “No one survives running from him. Not because he is everywhere all at once. Because the people who hate him are worse. And they would use you until there was nothing left to bury.”
My throat tightens.
“I know,” I whisper.
“Good.” She straightens and claps the clipboard against my arm. “Now go be brilliant before somebody decides you need more rest. Rest around here means locked doors and soup.”
The lab doors open.
Cold air rolls out, clean and chemical.
I step inside.
Work waits where I left it. Glass. Steel. White light. Men in masks and gloves. Machines humming in steady lines. The familiar order of it should calm me.
It doesn’t.
For hours, I move through my shift with my head down. I check readings. Monitor reactions. Correct two mistakes before they ruin a batch. No one asks me about the train station scene. No one mentions the bruises beneath my sleeve.
That is worse.
By the time my shift ends, my body aches from standing.
I wash my hands longer than necessary, watching water run clear over the healing cut in my palm.
When I return to my room, dinner waits on a tray.
I do not touch it.
I sit near the window instead, curled into the chair, staring out at the service road I no longer see without remembering mud, panic, and a train door closing.
A knock comes at the door.
Not a servant’s knock.
Not a guard’s.
Two firm taps.
I stand before I mean to.
“Come in.”
The door opens.
Lorenzo enters alone.
He wears black tonight. No jacket. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. His face holds no anger, yet my pulse changes anyway.
He closes the door behind him.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
His gaze moves over me, stopping briefly on my hand.
“How was the lab?”
“Still standing.”
“Then Elena behaved.”
I blink. “You know Elena?”
“I know everyone under my roof.”
Of course he does.
I fold my arms, then unfold them when the movement pulls at my bruises. “Did she report our conversation?”
“No.” His mouth tilts faintly. “She values her opinions too much to hand them over for free.”
That almost makes me smile.
Lorenzo walks farther into the room, stopping near the table. He does not sit.
“I came to ask you something.”
The words make me wary.
“Ask,” I say.
His eyes stay on mine.
“We will go to Milwaukee.”
My breath leaves me too quickly.
For a second, I hear the station again. Final call. Car three. Left side.
“What?”
“Not tonight. Soon. With me. With protection. You wanted to see family there.”
I grip the back of the chair.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because leaving you to go alone, the way you intended, may put you directly into the hands of whoever opened that door.”
My throat works.
He steps closer, but not enough to crowd me.
“Milwaukee is one hour and forty-five minutes by car if the road is clear,” he says. “Long enough for enemies to arrange a welcome. Short enough for me to make sure they regret trying.”
I stare at him.
“You would take me?”
“I said we will go.”
I should argue with the wording. I should hate that even mercy arrives dressed in command.
But all I can think is: he is giving me the road.
Not freedom.
Not yet.
But the road.
My eyes burn.
“Would that be something you want?” he asks.
The question catches me more than the offer.
Because he asks.
Because he waits.
I nod once. “Yes.”
My voice breaks on the single word.
I look away, but not fast enough.
Lorenzo sees it. He sees too much. Always.
“I will never forget this in a hurry,” I say.
His face changes slightly, not soft, but quieter.
“Gratitude is dangerous in this house, Victoria. People use it to build chains.”
“I’m not thanking the house.”
His eyes hold mine.
“No,” he says. “You are not.”
Silence settles between us.
Then he looks toward the window, where the estate lights burn through the dark.
“A man who wants loyalty should feed hunger with one hand and fear with the other.” His voice lowers. “My old man died surrounded by men who had eaten well and still prayed for his coffin.”
I listen without moving.
“Fear keeps people still,” he says. “It does not make them stay.”
I swallow.
“And what does?”
His gaze returns to me.
“Choice. When it is real.” A pause. “And debt, when it is not.”
My heart beats hard.
“Which one is this?” I ask.
Lorenzo studies me for a long moment.
“That depends on what you do with the road when I give it to you.”
I breathe in slowly.
The answer frightens me.
Not because it sounds cruel.
Because it sounds fairer than I expect from him.
He turns toward the door.
“Rest. The drive will not be a holiday.”
“Lorenzo.”
He stops.
I take one step forward. “Thank you.”
His hand rests on the door handle.
“Do not thank me yet,” he says. “Milwaukee may answer questions neither of us is ready to hear.”
Then he leaves.
The door closes behind him.
I stand in the quiet room, my bruised arm aching, my heart unsteady, and for the first time since the train door closed, Milwaukee no longer feels lost.
It feels like waiting.