12. Cat
— ? —
Cat
I don’t sleep.
The safehouse is quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes you hear things that aren’t there. The guards Nico left, Paolo and Sal, take shifts by the door and the back entrance. Professional, watchful, barely speaking.
I pace the small bedroom on the second floor, running Nico’s words through my head on a loop.
There’s been a power struggle since Aldo died. My father’s faction wants the old ways back.
Max has been desperate since you left. He doesn’t sleep. He barely eats. The only thing he talks about is getting you back.
Someone wanted you to find that note. Wanted you to run.
It makes sense. That’s the terrible thing, it actually makes sense, in a twisted, horrible way. Max has always been a strategist, always thinking three moves ahead, always willing to sacrifice pieces for position.
But I’m not a chess piece. I’m his wife.
Or I was.
The note is still in my pocket. I pull it out, unfold it for the thousandth time, stare at Marcella’s looping handwriting.
Since the attack wasn’t fruitful, I’ll try something else soon. She won’t be with us much longer.
If Max’s reply was true, last night was the first time he saw these words. Now he knows his former almost-fiancée has been plotting my disappearance like it’s a social event to coordinate. What he does with that knowledge will tell me more than another promise.
If Nico’s right.
But what if he’s wrong? What if this is another layer of the game, another move I can’t see? What if trusting Nico is exactly what gets me killed?
I catch myself hoping, hoping that the meeting really was theater, that Max really has been desperate to find me, that somewhere underneath all the ice and silence there’s still the man who brought me tea when I was sick.
And then I hate myself for hoping, because hope is how women in my books die in chapter thirty.
Dawn
Paolo knocks on my door with coffee and toast.
“You should eat,” he says, setting the tray on the dresser. “For the baby.”
“Nico told you.”
“Didn’t have to. I have three sisters, all with kids.” He shrugs. “You learn to recognize the signs.”
I take the coffee, decaf, I notice, which means someone’s been thoughtful, and wrap my hands around the warm cup.
“How long have you worked for Nico?”
“Eight years. Since before his father started pushing the old-guard agenda.”
“And you’re loyal to him? Not to Sergio?”
Paolo’s expression flickers with something like disgust. “Sergio Greco is a relic. He wants to drag the family back to the blood feuds and the vendettas and the constant warfare. Nico’s the only reason half of us haven’t walked away.”
“What about Marcella?”
“What about her?”
“Where does she fall? Old guard or new?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Marcella is her father’s daughter. Always has been.”
That’s not really an answer, but I don’t push. I’ve gotten more honesty from these people in one night than I got from Max in six months.
“Thank you,” I say. “For the coffee.”
“Thank me by staying alive.” He moves toward the door. “Sal’s on back entrance, I’m on front. Windows are reinforced, but stay away from them anyway. Don’t open the door for anyone except me, Sal, or Nico.”
“Understood.”
He leaves. I drink my coffee and watch the sky lighten through the gap in the curtains, and try not to think about how badly I want to call my husband.
Evening
The hours crawl.
I try to write, open my laptop, pull up the manuscript that’s been my salvation for months, but the words won’t come. My heroine is trapped, cornered, waiting for rescue that may never arrive.
Too close to home.
I close the laptop and pace instead. The bedroom is small, maybe twelve feet by ten, with a single bed and a dresser and a window that looks out onto the quiet side street. Nothing moves out there. A few parked cars, closed storefronts, the empty sidewalk.
It should feel peaceful. Instead it feels like the breath before a scream.
My phone buzzes. Nico.
“How are you holding up?”
“Fantastic. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my pregnancy, hiding in a safehouse waiting for someone to try to kill me.”
“Your sarcasm is noted.” A pause. “I’ve spoken to Max again.”
My heart stops. “What?”
“I told him I found you. Gave him the general area.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because he needs to know you’re alive, Cat. He’s been-” Nico breaks off, sighs. “He’s been falling apart. I’ve never seen him like this. He deserves to know.”
“Did you tell him about the baby?”
“No. That’s your news to share.”
“And the note? Anything more than what he texted?”
“He says he never saw the original. He wants you somewhere my sister can’t reach.” Another pause. “I told him you’re safe. I didn’t promise him a conversation.”
Am I willing to talk? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.
“Cat?”
“I don’t know what I want,” I admit. “I don’t know if I can trust him. I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“Fair enough. But he’s coming. He was already on his way to this area when I called. He’s been tracking the same leads I was. He reached the area this afternoon. We’re arranging somewhere you can meet if you choose.”
“And then what?”
“Then you decide whether to speak to him. But we also need to move you before-”
He stops.
“Before what?”
“When the faction makes their move.” His voice is grim. “Word is spreading, Cat. About the soldier who found you, about the failed extraction. My father knows you’re in the wind. He’s going to send more people.”
“How long do I have?”
“Hours. Maybe less.”
I close my eyes. “Great. Wonderful. This is exactly what I needed to hear.”
“Stay inside. Stay away from the windows. Paolo and Sal are good, but they’re only two men. If things go bad-”
“If things go bad, what? What’s the backup plan?”
“There’s a car coming with four of Max’s men. They’ll take you out by the rear lane. Max is coming separately. If anyone reaches you first, Sal knows another way out.”
He hangs up before I can respond.
Later That Night
I’m at the window when I see her.
I shouldn’t be at the window. Paolo told me to stay away, but I’ve been going crazy with the pacing and the silence, and I just wanted to see the sky, to remember that there’s a world outside these walls.
And there she is.
Marcella Greco, standing across the street like she’s waiting for a bus. Sunglasses pushed up on her head, perfect smile, looking directly at the safehouse.
Looking directly at me.
“Paolo!” I stumble back from the window, heart pounding. “Paolo, she’s here-”
He’s already moving, gun drawn, heading for the stairs. “Who?”
“Marcella. Across the street. And there’s a car-”
I look again, just in time to see a black SUV pull up beside her. Doors open. Men get out. Five of them, armed, moving with purpose toward the house.
“Sal!” Paolo shouts. “Back entrance, now! Get her out!”
“How did they find us?” I’m grabbing my bag, my phone, the knife Nico gave me. “Nico said this place was off-books-”
“There was a car two streets back when we brought you in. We thought we’d lost it. Move!”
Sal appears at the bedroom door, face grim. “Back’s still clear. We go now.”
“What about Paolo?”
“I’ll hold them at the stairs,” Paolo says. “Buy you time. Go.”
“You can’t fight five men alone.”
“I can try.” He checks his gun, meets my eyes. “Get her out of here, Sal. Whatever it takes.”
Sal grabs my arm. “Come on.”
We run.
The back door opens onto a small yard, then an alley, then a maze of side streets that wind through what used to be a residential neighborhood. Half the houses are empty now, boarded up, casualties of the same economic collapse that killed the rest of this town.
“Keep moving,” Sal says, pulling me along. “Don’t look back.”
I hear gunshots behind us. Paolo, holding the line.
“This way.” Sal turns down another alley, then another. He knows this area, I realize, must have scouted it when they set up the safehouse. “There’s a church three blocks from here. Old, mostly abandoned. Good place to hide while I circle back for the car.”
“You’re leaving me alone?”
“Just for a few minutes. I’ll come back for you.”
“What if they find me first?”
“They won’t.” He doesn’t sound certain.
We run for another block, then two. My lungs burn. My legs ache. The baby kicks, protesting the jostling, and I press a hand to my belly and keep moving.
The church appears at the end of a narrow street, stone walls, stained glass windows, a door that hangs slightly ajar.
“In there,” Sal says. “Hide. Don’t come out for anyone except me.”
“What’s the signal?”
“I’ll knock three times, then twice.” He’s already backing away. “Stay quiet. Stay hidden.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing around the corner, and I’m alone.
The church is dark inside. Cold.
I slip through the door and let my eyes adjust. Wooden pews, dusty and neglected. A faded altar at the front. Stained glass that might have been beautiful once, now covered in grime.
I find a spot in the shadows near the back, behind a pillar where I can watch both the main door and the side entrance. My knife is in my sleeve. My phone is in my pocket. My hand is pressed against my belly, where the baby has gone still.
It’s okay, I think at them. We’re going to be okay.
I don’t believe it. But I think it anyway.
Outside, I hear boots on pavement. Voices, distant but getting closer.
“Check the houses. She can’t have gotten far.”
“What about the church?”
“Too obvious. She’s smarter than that.”
A pause. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure they can hear it.
“Check it anyway.”
Footsteps approach the door.
I press deeper into the shadows, barely breathing, and do the thing I swore I’d never do again.
I pull out my phone and dial the number I know by heart.
One ring.
Two.
A grunt. “Yeah?”
I can’t speak. My throat is locked, paralyzed, and all I can do is breathe into the phone, useless and cowardly, a woman who’s spent four months running who has finally run out of road.
And then his voice changes. Completely. Utterly.
“Caterina.”
My eyes close. Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and silent.
“I need you.”
“Location. Now.”
No questions. No hesitation. Just those two words, sharp and certain, and underneath them something that sounds almost like desperation.
“St. Michael’s Church,” I whisper. “Off Main Street. I don’t know the exact address-”
“I know it. I’m ten minutes out.” The sound of an engine turning over, a door slamming. “Who’s coming?”
“Marcella’s people. Five men, maybe more. They found the safehouse.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. Not yet.”
I press myself flatter behind the pillar, phone tight to my ear, counting footsteps beyond the doors.
“Stay hidden. Don’t engage. I’m coming.”
“Max-”
“Ten minutes, Cat. Stay alive for ten minutes.”
The line doesn’t go dead. I can hear him breathing, hear the engine roaring as he drives. He’s staying on the phone with me, I realize. Keeping the connection open.
“I’m scared,” I whisper. I don’t mean to say it. The words just come out.
“I know.” His voice is rough. Raw. “I know you are. But I’m coming. Do you hear me? I’m coming.”
The church door creaks open.
I press the phone against my chest, muffling any sound, and hold my breath.
Footsteps echo through the nave. Slow, methodical. Someone checking the shadows, the corners, the spaces behind pillars.
Don’t look here. Don’t look here. Don’t look here.
The footsteps stop.
“Nothing,” a voice calls out. “She’s not here.”
“Check the basement.”
More footsteps, moving away. A door opening somewhere in the back. They’re going downstairs.
I lift the phone back to my ear.
“Cat?”
“Still here,” I breathe.
“Good. Keep talking to me.”
“I can’t. They’ll hear.”
“Then just breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”
I do. In and out, quiet as I can manage, while boots echo somewhere below me and my husband drives through the dark to find me.
“Five minutes,” he says.
The boots are coming back up. Multiple sets now, converging.
“She’s got to be around here somewhere,” someone says. “Fan out. Check everything again.”
The church door opens again. More men coming in.
I’m trapped.
“Max,” I whisper, so quiet I’m not sure he can even hear me. “They’re everywhere.”
“Four minutes.”
“I don’t have four minutes.”
“Cat-”
“Max.” My voice breaks on his name. “Please. Hurry.”
“I’m almost there.” His voice cracks. “Hold on for me. Just hold on.”
Footsteps approach my pillar.
I grip the knife in my sleeve and wait.