Chapter 27 Camilla
The car smells like stale cigarettes and death.
I sit rigid in the backseat beside Torretti, my dress torn and blood-stained, trying to process what just happened.
The images flash through my mind in disconnected fragments: Kozlov's hands on me, the fountain pen sliding into his throat, blood everywhere, gunshots, Renato's anguished face as Torretti dragged me away.
My hands are still shaking. Not from trauma. From adrenaline. I killed a man tonight. Drove a pen through his carotid artery and watched him bleed out on an expensive rug.
I should feel guilty. Should be horrified by what I've done.
Instead, I feel grimly satisfied. He deserved to die for putting his hands on me.
"Where are we going?" I ask, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.
Torretti doesn't answer. Doesn't even look at me. Just checks his phone as the driver navigates through darkness.
The silence is worse than threats. At least with Renato, I understood the game. With Torretti, I have no idea what he's planning. But I know one thing. He's not taking me back to the villa. He grabbed me during the chaos, saw an opportunity in the violence and took it.
Which means I'm his now.
The car turns onto a highway, and I see signs for Rome. My mind works furiously. Torretti is a broker, just like Renato said. He'll sell me to whoever he can find, whoever pays the most. I could end up anywhere. With anyone.
"How much am I worth to you?" I ask quietly.
He glances at me briefly, then back to his phone. No answer.
I try once more. "Renato will come looking for me."
"Vitiello has bigger problems than you," Torretti says finally, his voice disinterested. It's the first thing he's said since we got in the car. Then he goes back to his phone.
He's probably right. Renato has two dead buyers and a crime scene to manage. Even if he wanted to find me, he has to deal with that first.
The driver takes an exit toward industrial areas. Warehouses and commercial buildings that look abandoned in the darkness.
As we get closer to a complex of buildings, I see the security measures. Cameras, guards, reinforced doors hidden among the decay. This isn't abandoned. It's camouflaged.
The car stops in front of what looks like converted warehouses.
"Out," Torretti says. The only word he's given me in twenty minutes.
Two guards appear at the car doors. Large, professional, armed. Not the kind of people I could fight or run from.
One opens my door. I don't move immediately, and Torretti's hand closes around my upper arm. His grip is bruising as he pulls me from the car.
"Walk," he says.
The guards escort us toward a building that might once have been offices.
As we walk, I catalog every detail. Guard positions, camera locations, potential exits.
The fountain pen is gone, lost during the struggle at the villa, but I still have the nail file taped to the bottom of my foot.
A small weapon, but better than nothing.
Inside, the lobby has been converted into a security checkpoint. Clinical, efficient, designed to process people like cargo.
Torretti speaks briefly to one of the guards, too low for me to catch all of it. But I hear enough, second floor, no contact, ready for transport by morning.
Morning. I have hours, not days.
A female guard appears. Older, hard-faced, professional. She takes my arm from Torretti without ceremony.
"This way," she says.
As she leads me toward a staircase, I look back once. Torretti is already on his phone again, speaking in low tones to someone. He doesn't even glance in my direction.
The guard takes me up to the second floor and down a hallway with multiple doors. I can hear sounds behind some of them. Voices, movement. I'm not the only woman being held here.
She opens a door and gestures for me to enter. "Inside."
The room is small but cleaner than I expected. A narrow bed, a bathroom, a single barred window. The door has a heavy lock on the outside.
"Someone will bring clothes and food," the guard says. "Don't cause trouble."
"What happens in the morning?"
She looks at me with something that might be pity. "You get moved out."
The door closes. The lock clicks.
I'm alone.
I sit on the bed and force myself to think strategically. The fountain pen is gone, but I still have the nail file. Not much of a weapon, but I've already proven I can kill with improvised tools.
Through the walls, I hear other voices. Crying. Arguing. Someone speaking what sounds like Russian.
Other women. Other prisoners.
Which means there might be opportunities. Alliances. Information.
I stand and move to the door, listening carefully. Footsteps in the hallway. Guards changing shifts, maybe. Patterns I can learn.
The window shows only darkness and the glow of security lights on the perimeter. Bars prevent escape, but I can see the layout of the compound below.
I return to the bed and carefully extract the nail file from my shoe. It's small, but the edge is sharp enough. I hide it under the thin mattress where I can reach it quickly.
Then I sit back and start planning.