Page 53 of Mafia Bride
This may be my last chance to escape—not because I won’t have the opportunity again, but because I won’t want to.
There’s still nowhere to go. No money. No phone.
To the left. Shops.
To the right. The Square. Past that, a bustling street.
I know this without breaking his gaze.
Left. The possibility of a kind stranger.
Right. Fast-moving cars. A kind driver or an ER doctor.
Maybe death.
Rolling this over in my head takes the tiniest moment, barely a breath. But that’s all I need to make my ears thrum with adrenaline and my skin tingle with the promise of freedom.
“Don’t even think about it, little violet,” Santino warns. Because he can see through me. I’ve revealed too much of myself to him.
But he’s too late. My body’s given the idea a thorough analysis.
I throw my bag at Santino. He reflexively catches it.
But I’m already running to the left.
Running for my life.
14
VIOLETTA
Crowds part the wine-dark sea—to coin a phrase. Shoppers with expensive bags and cell phones and fancy coffee cups step out of the way as I hurry through the thickest of it, trying frantically to disappear. The street is bustling busy, but that’s to my advantage. The shoppers offer cover—he won’t touch me in front of them, and I can scream. I have one chance at an exit from this nightmare.
Freedom is ahead, I just have to grab it.
And then I stop dead.
“No sign of her yet.” Fat Lip’s back is to me. He’s talking on the phone, craning his neck to look in the wrong direction. Scouring. Hunting.
He’s going to turn to me in a split second, and that’s all the time I have to decide what to do.
I can cross the street or hide in another store until he’s gone, but what if he starts doing sweeps? Maybe one of these stores has a bathroom in it I can hide in for an hour. Not ideal, at all, but if I’m a ghost, maybe he’ll chase me somewhere I’m not while I slip out.
No time to plan, I duck into the store nearest me and hurry through the racks until I’m away from the windows and come face-to-face with a wall of lacy lingerie. In sexy, smoldering font, AGENT PROVOCATEUR is written across a mirror.
Oh, lovely. The fancy sex shop Scarlett always talked about visiting. Instead of browsing it and giggling and inspecting with my best friend, I’m hiding from the devil in his own hell.
“Hi there!” A perky girl with pushed-up breasts pops up in front of me. “Welcome to Agent Provocateur!”
My breath still constricts tight in my chest from the running and desperate fear. “Hi. There’s a man who is—” Speak of the devil and his minions shall appear. I’ve summoned him to the front of the store, where he stands outside, drenched in sunlight, framed by the window, looking in casually as if neither the tinting nor the glass itself is between us.
He isn’t searching, but there’s a definite sense of openness to his lack of commitment, like he heard a faint call from my direction.
I walk backwards, slowly, and with each step I take, Santino takes an identically measured one towards the door.
“Oh, Santino?” the girl says. I snap to look at her. She’s smiling like she’s about to make rent ten times over in commissions. “I know what he likes. I have it in the back.”
There’s no way he can see me. This is impossible. The store is dimly lit, dark, and sensuous, and it’s bright as the face of the sun outside. A beautiful day. I should be invisible past the reflection in the glass. Besides, it’s designed to show the mannequins, not the customers.
