Unless… I stop pacing as a different thought takes shape, heavier, darker.
Sicilians don’t believe in divorce.
The phrase surfaces unbidden, something I once half-joked about, half-dismissed when Giovanni brushed off my early attempts to understand his family’s traditions.
He never said it outright but he never denied it either.
Is that it?
Is my life hanging in the balance because of some primal, unyielding belief that marriage is permanent, unbreakable, worth spilled blood?
I close my eyes, a chill rippling through me that has nothing to do with fear of Bellandi and everything to do with the man downstairs.
I pace until the clock on the bedside table ticks over to 12:47 a.m. The house remains silent. Too silent.
Finally, I stop in front of the dressing room, my heart beginning to pound harder. I don’t… can’t think.
Thinking will stop me.
I spot my running shoes first, then keep searching until I see my gym bag.
My pulse spikes.
My phone is already in my hand. My bank card sits tucked into the slim wallet I never unpacked fully, as if some part of me always knew I’d need it quickly.
I strip off my dress and pull on shorts and a fitted top, movements brisk and efficient, muscle memory taking over where courage wavers. Then I shove the phone and card into my pockets.
No passport; I don’t even need to look to know Giovanni will have taken possession of it by now.
No luggage to weigh me down. Card and phone are just enough to run.
I move back into the bedroom and stand before the window, resting my palms against the cool glass.
The grounds stretch out below, dark and manicured, paths winding through shadow and moonlight towards the sea beyond.
My reflection stares back at me, eyes bright, skin pale, jaw set with a determination that feels equal parts desperate and defiant.
I don’t know if this will work.
But I know I can’t stay still and wait.
I slide the window open.
The night swallows me whole the moment my feet hit the stone terrace.
The air is cool, salt-sharp, scented faintly with jasmine and the ocean beyond, and for one wild, reckless heartbeat, I believe I might actually make it.
I run.
Not carefully or even quietly.
I run like a woman whose blood has turned to fire, whose lungs are already screaming, whose only coherent thought is forward, forward, forward.
The grounds stretch out ahead of me in long, deceptive curves, pale gravel paths winding through dark hedges and sculpted palms that feel suddenly predatory in their stillness.
I don’t look back.
I don’t want to see his men and I most definitely do not want to see him. Because if I see Giovanni Dragoni standing there in the moonlight, calm and inevitable and already certain of how this ends, something inside me will shatter.
