I finish showering and dry off. I wonder if he heard me. Don’t really care if he did.
I choose my old clothes—my jeans, my blouse. I don’t even bother to look in the laundry basket at the other clothes and the toiletries.
I slip on my mary janes just as the bedroom door opens.
Massimo enters, carrying two plates on one arm, the first containing penne covered in carbonara sauce and sprinkled with shredded pecorino cheese. The second a chicken breast garnished with spinach. He seems very pleased with himself.
He grabs the penne plate and offers it to me. I take it without saying anything.
“Is everything all right?” he asks, setting down the chicken plate on the nightstand.
“Fine,” I reply. I sit on the hardback chair and begin eating the penne. It tastes amazingly good, but I don’t even care. My mind is far away.
He studies me suspiciously. “I thought I heard you scream.”
“Oh, I slipped in the shower, nearly fell,” I lie. “I’m fine now.”
He nods, and begins backing away. He seems hungry when he looks at me, and I know it’s not for the food. But I’m not affected by him. Not anymore.
“Who were you talking to out there?” I ask sweetly.
“No one,” he replies.
I arch an eyebrow. “No one?”
He nods. “That’s right.”
Asshole.
“Thanks for the penne and chicken,” I tell him.
He nods, and pauses as though he wants to tell me something, but then seems to think better of it and turns around. He leaves and shuts the door.
When I hear the lock click I wolf down the rest of the penne. Then I begin undoing the bed. I unzip the duvet cover and remove the comforter. I grab the flat sheet underneath, followed by the fitted sheet, and remove the mattress cover. I knot them together, pausing now and then to take a bite of the chicken. I test each knotted section by pulling it around a corner of the bed, and bracing against the frame with my legs. They all seem to hold, but I guess the final test will come momentarily.
When I have all five pieces of the bed joined, I twirl the end of the top sheet into a long spiraling length and lean out the window to thread it between the outer wall and the shutter hinge. I knot it four times and pray it holds. I also dearly hope the shutter doesn’t break away from the window while I’m sliding down.
I toss the remaining length of the knotted sheets outside and they reach well onto the sand, forming my rope to freedom.
I clamber onto the windowsill and slowly lower myself over the edge. I grab onto the makeshift rope and let go of the sill so that the bedsheets are supporting my entire body weight. The rope immediately jerks and for an instance I fear I’m going to fall to my death, but then I realize the knot was simply further tightening under my weight.
I start to lower myself. I don’t really have a lot of upper body strength, so I mostly just loosen my grip and slide down the length. I flinch because the sheets give me a friction burn, and I hope it’s not enough to cut me.
I drop faster for a second—the hinge shifts above me as a screw comes loose, and for a moment I’m afraid it’s going to break away entirely. I suppress a scream, but the hinge holds. I continue lowering myself.
When I finally touch the sand without dying, I exhale in relief. My hands throb painfully, and when I look at my palms, I can see that the skin is red—chafed, but not bleeding. I’ll survive.
I turn around and scan the beach. Past the shrubs, the waves are peacefully lapping against the shore, beckoning toward me.
Your freedom awaits, they seem to say.
At first I stay close to the mansion, hugging the brick wall. When I reach the edge, I peer past and scan the fruit tree fields, looking for signs of life. I don’t see anyone. The place is deserted.
Massimo probably chose this villa for exactly that reason. The less people involved with my kidnapping, the better: he doesn’t need employees mouthing off about the beautiful woman who has come to stay at his villa, not when agents of my father are about.
I wonder if those agents are searching the island at this very moment? Looking for me. Waiting for me.
I scan the fields one last time and the beach beside me, and when I’m convinced the coast is clear, I leave cover at a run. My hair streaks along behind me. My mary janes fill with sand, and I’m running so fast they almost slip off. But I keep going, moving across the beach parallel to the sea, feeling the elation slowly rising with every step I take away from my prison.
