Who the fuck is he?
Not just rich. Not just obsessed. This is infrastructure. This isorganization. The kind of security that costs millions to build and maintain, that requires connections I can’t even imagine.
The beauty is a lie. Every frescoed ceiling, every marble floor, every antique fixture… all of it is camouflage. A pretty mask over something far more dangerous.
Fear spikes through me, hot and sharp. I force it down. Shove it into the same box where I keep every other useless emotion.
I know the drill by now. Find the weakness.
The studio door is open.
I stare at it from the hallway, my pulse thudding in my ears, because he promised me this, the hallway during the day, the studio, limited freedom in exchange for good behavior, like I’m a dog being trained with treats.
I step inside anyway.
The north-facing windows flood the room with perfect natural light, the kind of illumination I’ve spent years chasing across restoration sites. My worktables are arranged exactly as I kept them in Palermo. The German graphite pencils ranked by hardness. The acid-free paper stacked by weight. The magnifying glasses and calipers and fine brushes I use for detail work.
He’s been in my apartment. Touched my things. Studied the way I organize my workspace with the same attention I give to crumbling stonework.
He studied me like I was a structural problem to be solved.
The violation of it makes my stomach turn. I swallow hard, forcing the nausea back, and start searching.
Not for escape. Not anymore. For something I can use.
The pencils are wood and graphite, too soft to do real damage. The brushes are worthless. The magnifying glasses have rounded edges, designed for detail work, not defense.
But the calipers...
I pick one up, testing its weight. Metal. Sharp pointed ends designed for precise measurement. Not a knife, but close enough. There’s potential there. In the right situation it could do damage.
I slide it up my sleeve, casual. Like I’m just examining my supplies, reacquainting myself with my tools. The cameras are watching. I know they are. But I keep my face blank, my movements unhurried.
First rule of survival. Never let them see you coming.
Back in the bedroom, I slip the caliper under my pillow. The metal is cold against my palm for a moment before I release it.
One weapon. One small advantage he doesn’t know about.
First small victory.
Satisfied, I sit on the bed just as my stomach growls again.
I press my hand against my abdomen, trying to quiet the noise, but the hunger has moved past growling into something sharper. Cramps and a hollow ache that makes it hard to think about anything else.
Holy fuck. The blood oranges.
The memory surfaces like a life raft. The bowl in the studio, the one I threw at his head yesterday. The oranges rolling across the floor when I picked it up.
Is it possible they could still be there? Scattered across the studio floor.
I’m on my feet before I finish the thought.
The hallway is empty except for the guard at the far end. He tracks my movement but doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t speak. Just watches as I walk back into the studio.
The oranges are in a pretty ceramic bowl on the far worktable. Different than the one I hurled at his head.
I grab one. Dig my thumbnail into the skin and peel it in rough strips, the citrus scent sharp and bright in the coldmorning air. The first segment bursts against my tongue, sweet and bloody and perfect.
