The voices grew louder. An argument, maybe. Or a briefing. I couldn't tell. My attention snapped back to the zip tie as my hands slipped.
One more time. Just one more time.
The plastic gave way.
My left hand was free.
I flexed my fingers, rolling my wrist in circles to get the blood flowing again. The right wrist took another few minutes—easier now that I had more leverage. When it came free, I dropped the broken plastic to the ground and pressed my palms against my thighs, breathing like I'd just run a marathon.
No crying. No relief. Not yet.
I'd come here looking for Lorenzo. Walked into Red Hook knowing it was dangerous, knowing I might not walk out. I'd wanted to face him. To make him answer for what he'd done to my mother.
I hadn't gotten that. Not yet.
But I'd gotten something almost as valuable: his location. The layout of his stronghold. The rhythms of his security. The knowledge that he felt safe here—safe enough to hold me in his own basement.
Arrogance. The kind that would get him killed.
Just not today.
I got up and moved to the door, peering through the slot. The hallway beyond was empty, lit by the same sickly yellow as my cell. I could see the edge of a desk, maybe fifteen feet away.
The footsteps had stopped.
The silence was worse than the noise.
I went back to the cot and positioned myself against the wall, partially hidden by the angle of the metal frame. If they opened that door expecting to find me panicked and bound, they'd come in casual. They'd come in with their guard down.
That was all I needed.
The minutes stretched. I'd lost track of time hours ago, but my body knew—it had been long enough that the initial adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by something colder. Clarity.
Dante had taught me to observe. I'd learned to calculate. I'd watched the way his hands moved when he was making decisions, the way his eyes tracked potential threats in a room.
Now I had to apply those lessons alone.
The footsteps came back.
Just one set. One person. Heavy boots on concrete. The rhythm was urgent—something had changed.
The slot opened.
A tray slid through—water bottle, a bowl of something I didn't want to examine too closely. Standard captive feeding. They were keeping me alive for the ransom. For whatever terms Lorenzo had demanded in that video he'd forced me to record. For however long it took Dante to either accept or reject his father-in-law's deal.
That meant time.
I waited until the footsteps moved away. Ten seconds. Twenty.
Then I moved to the door and waited for the moment the guard would turn around. The one moment when they wouldn't be looking directly at the slot.
The footsteps reached the desk.
A radio crackled. A voice—distant, but urgent. Words I couldn't make out.
The guard cursed.
Then the footsteps hurried back toward the stairs.
