Afterward, I go to the window and scan the horizon, desperate for anything that might tell me where I am. All I ever see are mountains and endless rows of vineyards stretching across the countryside. It should be beautiful. Instead, it just reminds me how far from home I am.
The building itself is a big warehouse that’s empty and perfect for hiding someone no one is supposed to find. For torture. For erasing people.
Escaping feels impossible. The door is locked from the outside, and the only window is far too small for me to fit through. Every route out of here is closed, and every day I spend inside makes the walls feel tighter.
Like clockwork, the door opens and the same enforcer walks in. I’ve tried everything to get something out of him—his name, a reaction, anything—but he never gives me more than silence. He drops my food on the ground, just like always.
It’s the same miserable meal every day: stale bread, some kind of oatmeal, and an apple. It’s the only real food I get—just enough to keep me alive. Sometimes I get a sandwich, but that only happens every few days, usually when they know my body needs more.
I’ve lost weight since being in this room, but not enough to strip me of my strength. I make sure of that. They can’t see what I do in here. I’ve searched for cameras more times than I can count. If there are any, they’re hidden as well as nails in the walls.
Most days, Lorenzo doesn’t even come in anymore, which somehow makes it worse. The waiting is its own kind of torture. He keeps me guessing, never knowing when he’ll show up. But today I know he won’t—sandwiches only come when he’s about to hurt me, and I haven’t had one in over a week.
So the day passes like every other, with me sitting alone in this room, running through every possible escape in my head… and none of them get me home any faster.
THIRTY
MATEO
Drip. Drip. Drip.
There’s that fucking dripping again. At this point, it has become a form of torture. It’s driving me insane. It’s been 346 days since I last talked to my wife. Three hundred and forty-six days since I’ve heard her voice, her laugh, and that alone feels like torture.
The days never change. The same guy brings me food. Lorenzo still comes in to torture me. At this point, he’s getting off on it, and every day it gets worse. My entire body is covered in small scars that will never properly heal. I know the basics of first aid, but not enough to make any of it look good. They gave me a first-aid kit to make sure none of these cuts or wounds actually kill me.
Today is different. The guy who brings me food and water hasn’t come yet, and the sun isn’t shining through the window the way it always does when he walks in. Lorenzo hasn’t shown up either. Something is happening, and whatever it is, it isn’t good.
I need to get out of here, or at least figure out what’s going on. Maybe they’ve finally given up. Maybe they’ve decided to leave me here to die.
Weeks ago, they took the chain off my ankle, thinking they’d broken me. I let them believe it. I tried to find a way out, but there was nowhere to go.
I lied about some of the information I gave them. Slipped in coded messages meant for Gino, just in case any of it ever got back to him. Once I knew the Russos were talking to him, I started feeding them details that weren’t quite right.
I knew we couldn’t be far outside of Rome. I can see just enough of the city through the small window to be sure of that. So I said things like, “Roman thought the take would be smaller if we didn’t do something dirty,” which meant Rome looks small. Not perfect, but close enough. Gino and I have been using code since we were kids.
But as the days drag on, I don’t know if he’s picking up on it anymore… or if he’s even still trying.
I rush to the door and throw my weight against it. It doesn’t budge, not even an inch. Something is blocking it.
Fuck.
I slam my fists against the metal. “Hey! What the hell is going on?” I shout to no one in particular.
Then I hear it. A sharp popping sound, getting closer.
That’s gunfire.
It’s rapid, controlled—and moving toward me. Two louder shots crack through the air, echoing down the corridor. I’m not hallucinating. Lorenzo doesn’t use guns. Whoever this is, they came ready for a fight.
I stumble back and grab yesterday’s food tray. It’s heavy in my hands, but I lift it anyway, holding it like a shield. If this is how I die, at least I’m not going down without trying.
Then the door shifts.
Voices drift through the walls, muffled and tense. I can’t make out the words, but I hear at least two men arguing—or coordinating.
“Jesus, man, don’t try to kill me yet,” someone calls out to me.
Is that… Alonso?
