The rotating cleaning staff arrived at nine every morning like clockwork. Today, for the first time in weeks, I'd managed to slip one of thedelivery receipts from the kitchen trash—a grocery order placed with a local service. I'd memorized the company name, the ordering system, the typical delivery window.
If I could access a phone—a real phone, not the monitored one Luca provided—I could place an order myself. Have it delivered to a nearby convenience store. Slip out during the brief window when the morning staff was in the far wing of the penthouse.
Thirty minutes. That's all I needed.
The penthouse had security cameras in the common areas, but I'd studied their blind spots during weeks of pacing. The service stairwell had a dead zone—three floors where the camera angles didn't quite overlap. If I could reach that stairwell, I'd have a chance.
My stomach churned—whether from nerves or morning sickness, I couldn't tell.
I waited until the cleaning staff were working in the master bedroom, their vacuum's roar covering any sound. Then I moved.
The service door opened silently—I'd tested it yesterday, applying cooking oil to the hinges during a middle-of-the-night raid on the kitchen. The stairwell was dimly lit, emergency lighting casting everything in harsh shadows.
I began descending, counting floors. Twenty-eighth floor. Twenty-seventh. Twenty-sixth.
My head swam. I gripped the railing, forcing myself to keep moving. Just a few more floors. Just—
The dizziness hit without warning.
One moment I was on the landing, the next my vision tunneled, darkening at the edges. My knees buckled. I reached for the railing but my hands felt numb, distant.
I was falling.
My shoulder hit concrete,then my hip. Pain exploded through my side as I tumbled down half a flight of stairs, my body ragdoll-limp, unable to catch myself.
I came to rest on the twenty-fifth floor landing, vision swimming, ears ringing.
The baby.
The thought cut through the fog of pain with terrifying clarity. I pressed a hand to my stomach, as if I could somehow protect what might be growing there.
Footsteps thundered above me. Below me. Voices shouting.
"—found her—"
"—call the boss—"
"—don't move her—"
Strong hands on my shoulders. A face swimming into view—Angelo, Luca's guard, his expression tight with concern and anger.
"Mrs. Romano, can you hear me?"
I tried to respond, but the darkness was pulling me under again. The last thing I heard before everything went black was Angelo's voice, sharp and urgent:
"Get Luca. Now."
I woke to voices—low, tense, arguing just beyond wherever I was lying.
"—shouldn't have been in the stairwell—"
"—obvious she was trying to leave—"
"—security failure on our part—"
Luca's voice cut through, cold aswinter: "Everyone out. Now."
The sound of footsteps retreating. A door closing. Then silence, broken only by my own shallow breathing.
