Chapter Ten— Jamie
I stayed still for a long time after I woke up.
It was too dark to see much, so I stared at the ceiling and listened.
The apartment was silent—unnaturally so.
I was used to noise now. Sirens. People arguing.
The man was still here.
Then, just when I thought about him, I heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.
He was gone.
I sat up slowly, ears straining, heart pounding.
I waited for what felt like forever to see if he would come back.
When he didn't, I twisted my hand just enough and pulled free of one cuff, then the other.
He'd put them on too loose.
A mistake.
I sat on his bed for a second, surrounded by the scent of him, rubbing the red marks on my skin.
Then I stood and stretched.
My body ached from being still for so long.
I needed a bath.
The shower was quick.
I didn't waste time.
I didn't let myself relax.
Afterward, I wrapped myself in a towel and walked through his apartment, checking everything.
Looking for a way out.
A weapon.
Anything.
The place was locked down tight.
The doors had keypads and heavy bolts.
The windows were sealed.
It felt less like a home and more like a vault.
His computer was password-protected.
Another dead end.
I turned to the closet.
It was an open-concept walk-in without doors.
Inside, rows of suits hung neatly, all dark colors and expensive.
There were at least a dozen pairs of glasses, all different styles.
I crouched and opened the bottom drawers.
Papers.
Files.
A few photos tucked between them.
No birth certificates.
No IDs.
No Social Security cards.
Then I found a newspaper clipping.
I picked it up and read it.
Wife of CEO of New York's Largest IT Firm Killed in Midtown Drunk-Driving Crash
Next to the article was a photo.
She was beautiful.
Long dark hair.
A round, pretty face.
Soft features.
But what struck me were her eyes.
They looked like mine.
So did her nose.
We could've been cousins.
Sisters, even, if not for the difference in race.
I'd guessed right.
She was Italian.
Or maybe a mix of Hispanic and Italian.
My stomach twisted.
This was probably why he hadn't killed me.
I sat back, holding the photo, my hands steady but my mind racing.
I continued reading the article until I came across the name Vicente Morelli.
The name was familiar.
It nagged at me.
Like something I should remember.
"Vicente Morelli."
I said it out loud.
Suddenly, the pieces fell into place.
Years ago, his name had been all over the streets.
That's why his face had seemed familiar.
The story came back in fragments.
He'd killed a mob boss's son.
Over his woman.
Over Sophia.
The father hadn't killed him.
Some people said that was worse.
He'd kept Vicente alive and made him pay for it, on some indentured servitude type shit.
The mother wanted blood.
She'd put a price on his head.
And now here I was.
The same motherfucker's hostage.
I'd run from this life, but somehow I'd ended up right back in it.
This world was too fucking small.
I stood there, holding the photo and studying her face.
What kind of woman made a man destroy everything for her?
What did it mean that I looked like her?
My eyes drifted back to the article.
Five years.
Five years, and he was still carrying newspaper clippings around like holy scripture.
Still keeping her picture tucked away.
Still sleeping alone.
Something in my chest tightened.
Not quite sympathy.
But something close enough to make me uncomfortable.
No wonder he looked at me like he did.
No wonder he hadn't pulled the trigger.
I put the photo back, closed the drawer, and made sure everything was exactly how I'd found it.
Then I headed for the kitchen.
A plan was already forming.
I needed to make myself unkillable.
Feed him.
Buy time.
Earn trust.
Fuck him if he'd let me.
Maybe negotiate.
Maybe if I played him right, he'd let me go.
If he trusted me to disappear and not cause trouble.