"He mentioned something about updating your wardrobe for upcoming events."
"By throwing away my actual clothes and replacing them with—with—" I gesture helplessly. "I teach seven-year-olds, Maria. I can't show up to school looking like that."
"I'm sure he didn't mean for those items to be worn to school," Maria says gently. "Perhaps for evening events?"
"Evening events where I'm supposed to what? Stand on a corner?"
A throat clears behind me.
I spin around to find one of Dante's man—Tony, I think his name is—trying very hard not to smile.
"Miss Mancini," he says carefully. "I'm supposed to drive you to school this morning."
I take a deep breath, count to five, and remind myself that murdering my captor's employees probably violates the terms of our arrangement. And it’s not like they’re guilty of anything anyway.
"Fine," I say through clenched teeth. "Let's go."
The drive to school is silent. Tony doesn't try to make small talk, which I appreciate. I spend ten entire minutes composing and deleting angry texts to Dante after coercing Tony for his number. This guy is very tough but not more than me, I guess.
Who do you think you are, throwing away my clothes?
Delete.
I'm not wearing that trash you left in my room.
Delete.
If you think I'm going to dress like your personal fantasy, you're insane.
Delete.
By the time we pull up to the school, I've settled on:We need to talk. Today.
I hit send before I can second-guess it.
Tony opens my door. "I'll be here at 3:30 to pick you up."
"I can take the bus."
"Mr. Vitale's orders."
Of course.
I slam the door harder than necessary and head into the school, trying to shake off the anger clinging to my skin like smoke.
The classroom is my sanctuary. The one place that still feels normal, untouched by Dante's money and control. My desk with Emma's crayon drawing taped to it. The reading corner with its mismatched bean bags. The alphabet border I put up myself because the school couldn't afford the nice ones.
I lose myself in lesson plans, in preparing materials for today's math lesson, in the familiar rhythm of being Miss Mancini the teacher instead of Bianca the possession.
By the time the kids arrive at 8:15, I've almost convinced myself yesterday was a nightmare.
Then I see Alex.
He shuffles in last, backpack dragging on the floor, his eyes red-rimmed like he's been crying. Or didn't sleep.
"Hey, buddy." I crouch down to his level as the other kids settle into their seats. "You okay?"
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes.
