Page 76 of When She Unravels
VALENTINA
The next morning,I waste no time before looking for an escape route from my new room. I can’t sit around here while Damiano decides what to do with me. His hot-and-cold act has to be some kind of a game. Why else would he treat me like garbage at dinner only to play doctor a few hours later?
I begin with the window. When my thorough examination doesn’t reveal any special wires, I conclude Damiano lied to me about it being alarmed, and I try to open it. It doesn’t make a peep, but the handle won’t move no matter how hard I tug on it. When I exhaust all of my arm strength, I decide to leave it alone for now.
There’s a flatscreen TV but no remote, and I can’t find any buttons on the screen itself to turn it on. I briefly consider tearing it off the wall and tossing it at the window, but it won’t do anything to the steel bars on the outside. Why wouldn’t he leave me the remote? Maybe he’s hoping to torture me with boredom.
Minutes tick by slowly. At least I assume it’s minutes. There is no clock. The room is stylishly designed, but there’s literally nothing here. No clothes, no books, not even a pen.
I do my business in the bathroom. At least there’s a ton of toilet paper. I pop into the shower and stay there for a long time, trying not to give in to the desperation that’s simmering on the edges of my consciousness.
My clothes from yesterday are dirty. I sweated what must be the equivalent of a few buckets, so I really don’t want to put those back on. I give them a wash with an available bar of soap and hang them on the towel rack. With some luck, I might be able to put them on later today, but for now, I wrap the towel around me and return to the room.
I spend a long time turning over multiple escape strategies in my mind, but none of them make a ton of sense. If I had a knife or even a spoon, maybe I could start chipping away at the frame of the window. How long would that take? Long enough for Damiano to decide to send me back to my father after all. He said he wouldn’t, but I’m not naive enough to believe him. I wish I had something valuable to offer him, something that I could trade for my freedom, but he’s got more euros that I have cells in my body, and despite being the don’s daughter, I don’t have any information that would be valuable for Damiano. I already gave him everything I had.
I played my cards way too soon.
Eventually, my head starts to hurt from all of my fruitless scheming, so I scoot to the top of the bed and stare out the window. The sea glistens in the near distance. Even with that view to keep me company, it’s incredible how quickly boredom creeps in. My eyelids drift lower and lower. Looks like napping is about to become my favorite pastime.
Sometime later, I’m roused by three knocks on the door. I roll off the bed clutching my towel and creep to the door. “Yes?”
“It’s Martina. I-I brought you brunch.”
Is she going to open the door? She has to. There’s no other way to get the food inside. Maybe I can take advantage of it and run. I press my back against the wall and get into a ready stance, putting my weight on the balls of my feet.
“I’m not sure what you like, and Dem told me I can’t bring you any cutlery, so I got a croissant, cheese, some fruit, boiled eggs, and coffee.”
It sounds like an entire continental breakfast. My stance softens. Martina is trying to take care of me. What if I can get her to help me? And anyway, how far will I get wearing only a towel?
“Thank you,” I say as I step away from the wall.
There’s a soft click, and the door opens. Martina’s on the other side in a cropped T-shirt and a pair of jean shorts, balancing a tray filled with food on her palm.
I take the tray from her and step back. “This is very kind. I wasn’t sure if your brother was going to feed me.”
She takes in my clothes, or lack thereoff. “Do you want me to bring you something to wear?”
“That would be great.”
She nods. Behind her, I spy a huge security guard with a gun strapped to his waist.
Great.
Of course Damiano wouldn’t let her come up here on her own. I’m surprised he allowed her even with the backup.
The door shuts, and I eye the food on the tray. Everything looks delicious. I place it on the bed, tear off a corner of the still-warm croissant, and watch a bit of steam come out of the center. It tastes even better than it looks—slightly crunchy on the outside, and buttery soft in the middle. Did Martina bake it herself? It’s better than anything I’ve ever bought, even from my favorite bakery in Lower East Side.
She returns a short while later carrying a small stack of clothes under her arm. “You’re taller than me,” she says. “But I found a few things that should fit.”
“Thank you.” I take the stack from her. “I’m not picky.”
Her mouth curves into a shy smile. She glances behind her and gently nudges the door to the room to close it, but the security guard clears his throat before she finishes. “Door open, señorita.”
A flash of frustration crosses her delicate features, but it only lasts a moment.
“It’s okay,” I say. “They probably think I’ll maul you if we’re left alone.”
She blinks at me. “Will you?”
