58. Chapter 50
Lorenzo
I wake up in the dark.
My head is throbbing, my mouth tastes like copper, and I have no idea where I am.
Slowly, painfully, I push myself up onto my elbows.
Cold, damp concrete is hard and rough underneath my hands.
My eyes slowly adjust to the dark room, but vision is almost useless right now.
Shelves loom around me, tall, metal, and stacked with boxes.
I can’t read their labels, but it’s enough to tell me I’m in a storage room.
Somewhere.
Couldn’t tell you where.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I try to push myself up—that’s when I realize that my hands are bound behind my back. Not in metal cuffs, at least, but rough, fibrous ropes.
Then I smell it.
Smoke.
My body stills and I try to quiet my breathing.
Try to steady my heart rate. I listen carefully, trying to place myself based on sound alone.
Somewhere beyond the door of this closet there’s a loud shuffling noise.
Muffled and frantic. Someone is shouting—no, many people are shouting.
There’s a crowd moving, frantic and scared.
Bracing myself against one of the shelves, I force myself to my feet. The room tilts around me as my head pounds. I lean against the shelf while I wait for the nausea to pass.
Think, Lorenzo, think.
The last thing I remember is the gallery room at Giovanni’s house. The burning taste of whiskey on my tongue. The triumphant look in Giovanni’s eyes.
Nothing after that.
I stagger across the room in the dark, wishing my hands were free. I bump into the door, turn around so that my back is to it, and try the handle with my bound hands.
It doesn’t budge.
I turn it again, harder. Nothing.
“Fuck!” I shout.
I throw my shoulder against the door. “Hey! Somebody! I’m in here!”
Nothing. The shouting on the other side keeps moving, growing further away, even as the smoke grows thicker. I can feel it in my throat, choking me. I drop low, closer to the floor, where it’s a little better—for now.
Dash.
Is he okay? Did Giovanni go after him, after tucking me away in this dark, smoky room to die?
I left him.
That’s all I can think about.
I left him, telling myself that it was to protect him. But how can I protect him now that I’m here?
I find a shelf, brace my shoulder against it, and shove. It’s heavier than I expect, but it moves, inch by inch, until it topples over, metal shrieking and splitting when it hits the cold concrete.
Hopefully that’ll be enough.
I collapse beside it, my back to the twisted metal, and shove my bound wrists against the jagged, broken shelves. It’s not safe, but I don’t have time to be careful as I work the ropes against the sharp aluminum edges. Fibers split, even as I nick my skin, surely drawing blood.
But I don’t have time to worry about cuts. If I don’t hurry, I’ll die, suffocating in a locked room just like my father.
And I won’t let that happen.
The smoke is thick, burning my eyes. Tears run down my face from the pain.
My own mother.
The thought jumps into my mind as the ropes grow looser. My mother stood there while my brother fed me poison and she didn’t even bat an eye. She knew this whole time what happened to my father. She was in on it. She approved of the plan.
It may have even been her plan.
All my desire for vengeance now feels like rot in my soul. If vengeance is what I want, then must I kill a parent, just as Giovanni did?
I am not my brother.
The last bit of the rope splits, leaving my wrists aching and sore and free.
I scramble to my feet, a roar deep in my throat. I’m done asking for help, done pleading. Nothing fills me but raw, aching rage.
This door won’t hold forever.
Again, I throw myself against it, my body screaming in pain. I ignore it. Now is not the time for pain.
I will not die in here.