His breathing eventually deepened, and his arm unconsciously draped across my waist in sleep—the only time he allowed himself that vulnerability.
Even in sleep, his touch affected me. His arm was heavy across my waist, his hand splayed possessively over my stomach where our child grew. I could feel the warmth of his body behind me, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my neck.
I shifted slightly, and his arm tightened reflexively, pulling me back against his chest. The movement pressed me against the hard planes of his body, and I felt an answering heat low in my belly despite everything—the danger, the lies, the plan forming in my mind.
His hand moved in sleep, sliding lower, and for a moment I forgot to breathe. Forgot about Giuseppe's trap and Terminal B and escape plans. There was only this—his touch, his warmth, the way my body responded to him even when my mind knew better.
I pressed my hand over his, stopping the movement before it went further. Before I lost my resolve.
"I'm sorry," I whispered into the darkness, knowing he couldn't hear me. Sorry for what I was about to do. Sorry for the trust I was about to break.
But not sorry enough to stay.
I felt a pang of something that might have been regret. If I did this—if I betrayed his trust, slipped past his guards—there might be nocoming back. The fragile thing growing between us might shatter beyond repair.
But staying in the dark, being protected without agency, would kill something inside me just as surely.
My father's voice echoed from a buried memory:"The most dangerous position in our world isn't standing in the line of fire. It's standing in the dark, waiting for someone else to decide when you burn."
By dawn, I'd formulated a plan.
The plan was reckless, dangerous, possibly suicidal. Everything my father had taught me not to do.
But he'd also taught me that sometimes the only way to win was to make a move no one expected.
I was done waiting for permission to fight for my own survival.
The nausea woke me at 5 a.m.—it always did now, like clockwork. I made it to the bathroom before getting sick, then sat on the cool tile floor, forehead pressed against my knees.
Eight weeks pregnant and planning an escape. The timing couldn't be worse. But if I waited until I felt better, Giuseppe's window might close.
I forced myself to eat dry crackers, knowing I'd need whatever energy I could manage.
When Luca left the next morning with a terse goodbye, I started my mental countdown. The burner phone I'd hidden weeks ago would stay behind—too easy to trace. I had contacts my father had cultivated, people who'd served him before Giuseppe's influence spread. If I was going to move against my uncle, I needed to know his exact plans first.
I'd been observing the guard rotations for weeks. Angelo's patterns. The maintenance schedules. Security briefings I heard by chance. And I'd located the emergency cash Luca kept in his office—two hundred dollars in twenties, tucked in the back of his desk drawer. I'd taken half, figuring he'd be less likely to notice.
Weeks ago, before Luca grew suspicious of Francesco's loyalties, I'd overheard him briefing Angelo about system updates from the kitchen: "The new dual authentication is causing delays for maintenance staff. If the main system glitches, the temporary override is seven-seven-alpha. Don't write it down—memorize it."
I'd filed the information away automatically, another survival instinct from childhood. Now, with Francesco removed from security duties, that override code might be my only way out.
Watching Angelo check the monitors, I saw my opportunity. The keycard he always set down.
When he moved to adjust a camera angle, I acted. The keycard slid into my pocket in one smooth motion, replaced with a credit card from my wallet—inactive, but the same size and weight as a keycard. He wouldn't notice the swap until the next authentication check.
My heart pounded as I moved toward the service corridor. One chance. The override code Francesco had so helpfully provided, the stolen keycard, and enough nerve to walk through a door that might trigger every alarm Luca had installed.
The keypad glowed in the dim hallway. I entered the code: seven-seven-alpha.
The panel beeped once. Access granted.
The service door opened with a hydraulic hiss, revealing a dimly lit tunnel stretching ahead. Cold air rushed out, carrying the scent of concrete and industrial cleaner.
One last chance to turn back. To be the dutiful wife, the protected princess, safely ensconced in Luca's gilded cage.
Instead, I stepped forward into the unknown, letting the door seal behind me with a soft, damning click.
The tunnel was exactly as I'd imagined from studying the building schematics I'd found in Luca's office weeks ago—narrow, utilitarian, designed for maintenance access rather than comfort. Emergency lighting cast everything in harsh shadows. My footsteps echoed too loudly in the confined space.
