I don’t mention Luca’s name or the ultimatum or the details of what my father did three years ago, but I give her enough to understand why running isn’t an option.
My voice breaks when I get to the part about trying to take Dad with me. “I tried to get him out. I tried to fight, but…” My hand unconsciously moves to my ribs. “His guy threw me around like I was nothing. And they just took him. Dragged him away while I was on the ground, and I couldn’t…”
My voice breaks. Katie reaches over and grasps my hand.
“I don’t even know if he’s still alive,” I whisper, the words I’ve been holding back all night finally spilling out. “What if they killed him anyway? What if?—”
“Stop,” Katie says firmly, her leg starting to jiggle. She’s getting anxious. “Don’t go there. You don’t know that.”
“I don’t know anything!” The frustration explodes out of me. “They could be torturing him right now. They could have killed him the second I left. And I’m just supposed to sit here and wait for some psychopath to call and tell me what to do?”
Katie squeezes my hand, saying nothing.
What is there to say?
We sit like that for a while, my breathing harsh and uneven, her thumb rubbing small circles on the back of my hand like she used to do when we were studying for finals and I was on the verge of a breakdown.
Finally, I force myself to keep talking.
To tell her the rest.
About the ultimatum.
About the marriage demand.
About the forty-eight hours I had.
When I finish, Katie sits in silence for several minutes, staring out at the lake.
She had removed her hand from mine and was loosely grasping the steering wheel.
“Marriage,” she says finally.
“Marriage,” I confirm.
“To someone you’ve never met.”
“To someone who could kill us both without blinking,” I correct her. My ribs throb in emphasis, a constant reminder of how powerless I am.
“Jesus tapdancing Christ, Gigi.” She turns to look at me again, and I can see her trying to process the impossible situation. “What are you going to do?”
The question I’ve been avoiding all morning sits between us. WhatamI going to do?
I close my eyes and immediately see my father’s face in the warehouse—his eyes finding mine as they dragged him away. The guilt and terror in that look.
I press my hand to my ribs, feeling the tender flesh beneath my shirt.
These bruises will heal in a week or two.
But what are they doing to Dad right now? Is he in more pain than I am? Worse pain?
The not-knowing is its own special torture, and I’m certain Luca planned it that way.
I let myself remember what happened three years ago, the night that led to this moment.
Three Years Ago
The spare key to Dad’s apartment feels cold in my hand as I climb the stairs to his third-floor walkup.
