“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
We sit in silence, the rain pattering against the window. I should be afraid of him. I should be planning my escape, looking for weaknesses, thinking three steps ahead. Instead, I’m sitting on a bed next to a killer and feeling dangerously close to comfort.
“Leone.”
“Hmm?”
“Why do you keep coming back here? You could send anyone to deliver documents. Hell, you could have one of the guards check on me. But you keep showing up yourself.”
“You’re my responsibility.”
“Bullshit. I’m Aurelio’s prisoner, not yours. You don’t have to babysit me.”
“I’m not babysitting.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He turns to look at me, and for a second, the mask slips. I see something raw underneath—something hungry and scared and desperately human.
Then it’s gone, and he’s Leone again. Controlled. Untouchable.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
He stands and walks to the door. Pauses with his hand on the frame.
“Renzo will be dealt with tonight. By tomorrow, the leak will be closed.” He glances back at me. “You did good work, Alexandra. Don’t let the guilt eat you alive.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“No.” His voice drops. “It’s not.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone with the rain and the silence and the growing certainty that the animosity between us has shifted.
I don’t know what it means yet.
I spend the day pacing.
The documents are gone, Leone took them when he left, so I have nothing to occupy my hands or my brain. I do pushups until my arms give out. Squats until my legs burn. I recite song lyrics, count ceiling tiles, play chess against myself using pieces made from torn paper.
Nothing works. The restlessness crawls under my skin like ants.
By evening, I’m ready to scream.
When the dinner tray arrives, I almost don’t eat. But hunger wins over anxiety, and I force down the food without tasting it. Roast chicken tonight. Mashed potatoes. Green beans cooked with garlic. A meal fit for a guest, not a prisoner.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I’m washing my face in the bathroom when I hear it: raised voices in the hallway. Not shouting, but close. Intense. Urgent.
I press my ear to the door and catch fragments.
“—can’t be serious—”
“—Aurelio’s orders—”
“—move her now, before—”
