30

30


The morning of the trip, the dollhouse was quieter than a tomb. You could hear the rustle of sheets as the other girls pretended to sleep. I had folded my one spare shirt and pants hoping it's just a day trip so save me from the embarrassment of wearing one clothes for days.

As I swung the half-zipped small bag over my shoulder, shut my door, and turned to leave when Nicole came out of nowhere, and with spite slammed her shoulder hard into mine. The bag flew from my hand, hitting the floor with a thud. My few belongings—chapstick and hairbrush—scattered across the dusty floorboards.

I've never seen a woman act so sixteen before.

I dropped to my knees, my hands scrambling to gather them.
Nicole leaned down, her hair falling like curtain, hiding her face from the others. As she lowered her voice and whispered. "He gets bored on long trips," she hissed, her breath hot. "I should know. Don't be surprised if he tosses you out over the Atlantic, bitch."

She straightened up and walked away, leaving me crouched on the floor. My heart wasn't pounding with fear, but with a cold, solid hatred. I shoved the last of my things back into the bag and stood up.

Lissa was waiting outside the door. She didn't ask what happened, her eyes went straight to the bag in my hand. "Let's go."

She led into a small, windowless room in the servant's wing of the dollhouse. A cleaning closet, by the smell of bleach and lemons.

"Arms out," she commanded.

I stared at her. "What?"

"Arms out. Legs apart. Now."

The humiliation was a hot flush that went from my chest to my cheeks. I stood there, rigid, as her hands patted me down with a brutal, impersonal efficiency. She ran her hands over my arms, my ribs, my hips, the inside of my legs. She was checking for anything, everything.

Her fingers found the small, sharp hairpin I had worked loose from a rusty vent in the dollhouse bathroom. I'd hidden it in the seam of my sleeve. A stupid, tiny thing.

Was she scared I'll stab Moretti in the neck with it?

She pulled it out, holding it between her thumb and forefinger like a dead bug, and smirked. "Nice try," she said and dropped it into her own pocket. "You'll get it back when we return. If you behave."

She then turned and walked out. I stood there for a second, my skin crawling, at the feeling of my own weapon taken away, I felt naked. It wasn't even for Moretti anyways, after being harassed thrice now by the men here, the least u could do to protect myself was finding a weapon. I scoffed and followed behind.

Few minutes later we got into the cable car and arrived at the main villa.

The motorcade in the courtyard was a show of terrifying force. Four massive black SUVs, their engines rumbling like sleeping beasts. Men in dark suits with eyes that missed nothing stood at each door.

Lissa opened the back door of the second SUV and gestured for me to get in. "Get in."

I slid across the cool leather seat and she slammed the door shut. Through the tinted window, I saw Moretti emerge from the villa and got into the lead SUV without a backward glance.

And we start to move. The great iron gates of the estate swung open and I held my breath as we passed through them.

I was outside.

For the first time in months, I was outside the walls. I pressed my face to the window, watching the familiar, hated landscape of the estate give way to ordinary roads, ordinary trees. My heart beat violently in my chest at the sight.

This was it.

This was my chance.

The drive to the private airfield was silent. I watched the world go by, people going about their daily lives, officers on patrol, kids waiting for their school bus. A life I'd been ripped from. It was like watching a movie of a world I used to belong to.

When we pulled onto the tarmac, Moretti's jet stood there, huge and white and menacing. It looked less like a plane and more like a bird of prey waiting to take flight.

I mean, it IS an a bird of prey but immobile.

We all got out of the car, the wind whipped across the open concrete, pulling at my clothes. I followed Lissa, my small bag in hand, toward the jet's stairs. My mind was racing, calculating the distance to the chain-link fence, the number of guards.

It was impossible. This was Italy, a place I know no one and nothing about.

A loud, sharp BANG suddenly erupted from somewhere near a hangar.

Possibly a truck backfiring.

But I didn't even have time to process the sound when, in a flash, the two guards flanking me moved. One of them shoved me down hard. My knees hit the rough concrete, a grating pain shooting up my legs. The other guard threw his body over mine, his weight crushing me into the ground. I couldn't breathe. I saw the drawn gun in his hand.

Two seconds.

Three.

Then the weight was gone. They yanked me back to my feet as if I were a sack of flour. And he didn't just almost kill me over a fucking truck backfiring.

For people who's been into the job for years, they sure can't different the fucking obvious sound.

Tiny pebbles were embedded in the skin, and they didn't say a word about it. They holstered their weapons, their faces blank again.

I limped up the stairs to the jet, my legs trembling. The interior was all cool, muted grays and deep leather, a little different from the one I came here with.

Moretti was already there, seated at a table, papers spread out before him. He looked up as I entered. His amber eyes didn't go to my face. They went directly to my legs, to the fresh, bloody scrapes on my knees. He held my gaze for a single, endless second, then he looked back down at his papers.

I stood there, swaying slightly, the pain in my knees a dull, throbbing ache. The hope I'd felt looking out the car window shriveled up and died.

Lissa nudged me toward a seat in the back. I sat down, the soft leather feeling relaxing my muscles. The plane's engines began to whine, building to a deafening roar. I stared at Moretti's back, at the impossible breadth of his shoulders as he fastened his death belt and shut his laptop with the papers inside.

And this big bird began to run down the runway.