What if he doesn't come? What if the last thing I ever said to him was something dismissive and cold?
"I need to use the bathroom," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. It comes out small and scared anyway.
Let them think I'm terrified and weak. Let them underestimate me.
I am terrified. But I'm also Dominic Costa's daughter.
And I didn't spend twelve years learning this business, learning how to survive in this world, to die in an abandoned warehouse without fighting back.
"You can wait," the leader says dismissively.
They move away from me, clustering by the door in a loose group. Their voices drop to a murmur I can't quite make out.
I test the zip ties carefully, trying not to draw attention. They're tight—professionally done, the way someone with experience would secure a prisoner.
But my wrists are small, and I'm flexible from years of yoga classes.
I start working my hands slowly, carefully, trying to compress my thumb to slip it through. The plastic digs into my skin, cutting. I can feel warm blood starting to trickle down my palms.
I bite my lip hard to keep from making any noise that would alert them.
If I can just get one hand free, just create enough space—
"Stop moving," one of the men barks suddenly.
I freeze completely.
He walks over, checking the zip ties with rough hands. Then he tightens them even more. Pain shoots through my wrists, white-hot and immediate.
"Try that again and I'll break your fingers," he says conversationally, like he's discussing the weather. "Understand?"
I nod mutely.
He walks back to his position by the door, satisfied.
I sit very still, breathing through the pain radiating from my wrists, blinking back tears I refuse to shed in front of them.
Okay. New plan.
I need to wait. Be patient. Watch for an opening, any opening.
They'll have to move me eventually. Or untie me for something. Or make a mistake.
And when they do, I'll be ready.
I close my eyes and let myself think about Santino for just a moment. Please come, I think desperately.
Time passes in the darkness—I don't know how long. Without my phone or any windows, I've lost all sense of time.
The men take turns watching me. One steps outside to smoke, the smell of cigarettes drifting back in. Another makes a phone call, his voice too low to hear clearly.
I wait.
And I hope that this time, when I need him most, when it actually matters, he'll believe me.
Even though I've given him every reason not to.
Chapter 20: Santino
