Chapter 35 Chapter 35
Chapter 35
Nina’s POV
The man’s laugh died in his throat the moment my scream sliced through the morning air. He turned fully now, cigarette still smoldering between yellowed fingers, eyes narrowing as he took me in properly.
Mud-streaked legs, soaked black top clinging like a second skin, hair plastered in dark ropes across my face, bare feet bleeding onto the marble plinth. I looked like something the river had coughed up and decided not to keep.
He tilted his head, sizing me up the way people size up stray dogs—half pity, half annoyance.
“You speak English?” he asked, accent thick but clear, rolling the words like he had practiced them in front of a mirror.
I wiped rainwater and tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. “Obviously. And you speak it better than I expected from someone who pisses on priceless art.”
He snorted, flicked the cigarette butt into a puddle where it hissed and died. “Priceless? This old rock has been peed on by tourists, drunks, and pigeons for two hundred years. You’re not special.”
I stepped closer despite the ache in my ankle, fury giving me temporary wings. “I was hiding under it. You pissed on me.”
He raised both hands in mock surrender, palms out. “Hey, I didn’t see you. You blend in with the gargoyles. Small, dirty, angry—perfect camouflage.”
“Small?” I snapped. “I’m five-four. That’s average.”
“Average for what? A garden gnome?”
I felt heat rush to my face. “You’re one to talk. You look like you ate the rest of the security team for breakfast.”
He patted his belly—round, solid, the kind that spoke of too many late-night beers and not enough gym time. “This is power. Keeps me warm in winter. What’s your excuse?”
“My excuse is I’ve been running from the police all night because some hotel clerk stole my last possession and called me trash.” My voice cracked on the last word. I hated how small it made me sound.
He studied me again, longer this time. The smirk faded a fraction. “Police, huh? What’d you do? Steal bread? Kiss the wrong man?”
“I didn’t steal anything.” I lifted my chin. “I tried to sell something real. They didn’t believe me.”
He glanced at my empty hands. “And now you’ve got nothing but attitude and wet clothes.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly hyper-aware of how see-through my top had become. “I have more than that. I have survival.”
“Survival.” He echoed the word like it tasted funny. “That’s cute. You look half-drowned and ready to cry.”
“I don’t cry,” I lied. “I scream. There’s a difference.”
He chuckled again, low and rough. “Fair enough, scream queen. So what are you doing hiding under my favorite pissing spot?”
I hesitated. The truth felt too dangerous—mafia, kidnapping, a senator father selling my soul for votes. But something in his eyes—wary, but not cruel—made me risk a half-truth.
“I’m looking for work. I need money. A place to sleep. Food. Anything.”
He raised one thick eyebrow. “You? In a uniform?”
I looked down at myself—ripped jeans, stained top, no shoes. “I clean up nice. And I’m not picky.”
He laughed outright this time, head thrown back. “You speak good Bulus.”
I blinked. “Bulus?”
“Your language. English. You speak it well for someone who looks like she crawled out of the Tiber.”
I almost smiled despite myself. “I’m surprised you speak it so well. Most people here just yell ‘polizia’ at me.”
He shrugged. “Tourists. They come from everywhere. I learned so I could overcharge them in six languages.”
I studied him properly now. He wore a faded navy uniform—security or maintenance, hard to tell—with a name tag pinned crookedly to his chest: Marco. His face was weathered, lines carved deep around his eyes and mouth, but there was a sharpness there, a street-smart glint that reminded me of Enzo in quieter moments.
“So,” I said carefully, “you work here?”
“Twenty-three years. I sweep floors, scare off kids, fix leaks, and apparently scare off drowned girls who scream at me.”
“Then you can help me get a job.”
He gave me a long look—head to toe, slow and assessing. “You serious?”
“Dead serious.”
He rubbed his chin, pretending to think hard. The performance was almost theatrical. “Okay. I’ll help. But I can only pay you ten dollars a week.”
My stomach dropped. “Ten dollars? A week?”
“That’s right. And you’ll be in charge of washing the toilets. All of them. They’re disgusting. That’s why I piss on statues—saves time.”
I stared at him. “That’s not fair.”
He shrugged. “Life isn’t fair, scream queen. But the job comes with a free room in the staff basement—small, but dry—and free food from the cafeteria. Three meals. No questions asked.”
The words landed like a lifeline thrown into choppy water. A room. Food. Safety. Even if it was only temporary. Even if it smelled like bleach and regret.
I smiled—bright, sudden, the first real one in what felt like forever. “I’ll take it.”
Marco smirked, slow and knowing. “Follow me before you change your mind.”
He turned and walked toward a side entrance half-hidden by ivy. I limped after him, ankle throbbing with every step, but I did not complain. The museum doors opened into cool, echoing darkness—marble halls, high ceilings painted with faded frescoes, statues standing silent watch. He led me down a narrow stairwell to a basement corridor lit by flickering fluorescents.
We stopped at a supply room. He unlocked it with a key from a heavy ring on his belt. Inside: shelves of bleach, mops, rubber gloves, stacks of gray uniforms. He tossed me a set—pants and shirt too big, but clean.
“Change. You stink like river and desperation.”
I took the clothes without argument. There was a tiny staff bathroom attached—sink, toilet, cracked mirror. I stripped out of the wet rags, shivering as cold air hit bare skin. Bruises bloomed purple and yellow across my ribs, my thigh, my arms. The split lip had scabbed over, dark and angry. I washed as best I could with cold water and paper towels, then pulled on the uniform. It hung loose, but it was dry. It was armor.
When I stepped out, Marco was waiting with a bucket, mop, rubber gloves, and a bottle of industrial cleaner that smelled like death.
“Left wing toilets first,” he said. “Finish them, then come eat. Don’t steal anything. I’ll know.”
I took the supplies. “I won’t.”
He gave me one last look—half warning, half curiosity—then walked away.
The left wing restrooms were down another corridor. I pushed the door open and immediately gagged.
The smell hit like a wall—urine, feces, mildew, vomit. Stalls smeared with brown streaks. Toilet bowls crusted black. Floors sticky underfoot. Paper towels and cigarette butts floated in shallow puddles. One sink overflowed, water dripping steadily onto cracked tiles.
My stomach heaved. I bent over the nearest sink and dry-heaved, nothing left to come up. Tears stung my eyes.
But I straightened. Took a deep breath through my mouth.
At least I had a start. A room. Food. A roof.
And those dangerous men—Dante, Enzo, Nikolai—hadn’t found me yet.
I smirked at my reflection in the streaked mirror—wild-eyed, bruised, but alive.
I rolled up my sleeves, pulled on the gloves, and turned on the faucet full blast.
Hot water steamed. I grabbed the mop.
Then I whistled—low, defiant, a little tune I remembered from childhood.
I scrubbed. I gagged. I scrubbed harder.
The mess fought back, but so did I.
One toilet at a time. One stain at a time.
This was not freedom the way I had dreamed it.
But it was mine.
And for the first time in months, I felt the tiniest flicker of control.
I would clean these toilets until they shone.
I would eat cafeteria food and sleep in a basement cot.
I would heal my ankle, grow stronger, plan better.
And when the time came—when Dante’s shadow finally fell across this city again—I would be ready.
Not as a prisoner.
Not as a victim.
As something new.
Something unbreakable.
I whistled louder, the sound echoing off the tiles, turning filth into rhythm.
This was not the end.
This was only the beginning and I am finally free of those dangerous yet beautiful monsters.