My arm is yanked down from something behind me.
Then the weight of my purse leaves my arm.
I curse loud enough that the other tourists and shoppers around us look directly at me and then towards the pickpocket once they’ve realized what happened. I don’t think; I run towards the thief. He looks young, maybe around thirteen, so there’s a good chance I’m stronger than him.
“Sofia, wait!” Bianca calls out from behind me as she runs a few paces behind me.
“I’m not letting him get away.”
If I lose everything in my purse, there’s no hiding that we snuck out of the hotel today when I stop answering texts.
Bianca catches up to me so that she’s running by my side, but clearly out of breath. She nods her head, unable to talk. I’m hoping that she’s able to keep up for a few blocks. She’s been working out more since sobering up, but I’m used to exercising twice a day—that habit never broke after playing tennis in college.
The boy stutters his steps to turn into an alley; my purse swings slightly as it rests on his shoulder. I hike my dress up so that I can take longer strides, not caring about looking indecent, and push forward into the alley. I can sense that I’m leaving Bianca in the dust, but I’m gaining ground on the thief.
I hop over a couple of bags of trash then orient my body so that I’m turned to the side to pass a couple of people—there’s barely enough room for two people to stand side by side in this alley.
“Someone stop him! Please!” I shout, but people are too slow to react or too afraid to stop the boy. I don’t blame them; he could have a knife or another type of weapon on him.
That’s a thought I keep trying to ignore as I get closer to him.
He exits the alley, and I can see him questioning whether he should turn left or right. I speed up, thinking that this is my chance to get him.
But he runs out into traffic like a real-life game ofFrogger, dodging cars and getting across the street to the other side.
“Son of a bitch,” I manage in between breaths. I can feel my hair sticking to my head as sweat forms at my hairline.
I know that I’m losing steam from sprinting for so long, but I’m not giving up now. There’s an opening in traffic, and if I push just a little bit harder…
I’m out onto the street, clearing the first lane, then I hear someone laying their hand on the horn. I look to my side,jumping at the right moment in time so that I don’t fall underneath the car.
My shoes land on the hood of an expensive, foreign, black sedan. I catch myself with my hands when the car jolts back from the driver stomping on the brake.
For some reason, my eyes look past the driver gesturing wildly with his hands and cursing at me, towards a man in the backseat.
He’s in an expensive suit and looks like he belongs in a magazine rather than someone I’d see in real life. His green eyes, wild in disbelief as he stares at me.
Cars move around us. Some honk, but most maneuver as if we’re just a nuisance.
The man removes his seatbelt, says something to the driver and then exchanges some words with the woman seated next to him. It’s all too low for me to hear.
Then he gets out of the car.
Alessandro
“You seem stressed,” Elena says as we drive home from the designer. “Nervous about the wedding?”
I am. But not for the reasons she thinks—Marco’s idiotic plan keeps running through my mind. I’ll tell her about that once we get back from the shopping trip so she can know to leave the reception quickly.
“No, I had to talk to Vincenzo and Marco before this. Vincenzo was his usual cunty self, and Marco was foaming at the mouth. I haven’t recovered yet.”
She smirks, turning her head away from me briefly and looking out the car window. “Well, I’m sure you were perfectly polite and reasonable.”
“Fuck you.” I laugh. “To be fair, I did ignore Vincenzo for two minutes as he sat on the couch in front of me, so he was even more combative with me than usual because of that. I just zoned out as if he weren’t there. It was a useful strategy. I plan on using that more.”
She scrutinizes me for a beat. “You just stared at him and didn’t respond for two minutes? What the hell is wrong with you? We should drop you off at the nearest mental ward rather than goinghome. Or a research lab, maybe. You might be too much for a psychiatrist.”
If anyone else said that to me, I might take offense depending on the context. But it’s rare that I get angry at anything Elena says—I know that she’s only joking.
