GIULIA
The room they put me in is small and windowless, lit by a single bare bulb that casts harsh shadows across the concrete walls. There's a metal desk pushed against one wall, a chair that's seen better days, and two guards stationed by the door.
One is older—maybe mid-forties, with an expression on his face that tells me he’s seen too much violence to be moved by much of anything. He stands with his arms crossed, watching me with the detached interest of someone monitoring livestock.
The other is younger. Early twenties, maybe. His eyes keep darting between me and the door, and his hand rests on his weapon like he's not entirely sure what to do with it. He's nervous. I latch onto that, hoping it means I might be able to do something about him.
I've been sitting in this chair for what feels like hours, my hand pressed protectively against my stomach, trying to keep my breathing steady and not think about what Alessandro said. Trying not to imagine all the ways this could end badly.
But I can't just sit here and wait to be rescued or killed. I need to do something.
"What's your name?" My voice cuts through the oppressive silence as I look at the younger guard, twisting to face him.
The young guard's eyes snap to mine. "Shut up."
"I'm just asking your name." I keep my tone as gentle as I can. "I'm Giulia."
"I know who you are." He shifts, sounding uncomfortable.
"Where are you from?" I press, watching his face carefully. "You don't sound like you're from Brooklyn."
"I said shut up." But he shifts his weight, and I can see the uncertainty in his face. The older guard doesn't even look at us. He's staring at the door like he's already bored with this entire situation.
"I'm pregnant," I say quietly, and the young guard's eyes drop to my stomach. "I'm scared. I just want to go home."
"That's not my problem." But his voice has lost some of its edge.
"I know." I swallow hard, letting him see the fear I'm feeling. "I know this isn't personal for you. You're just doing your job. But I'm terrified, and I don't know what's going to happen, and I—" My voice breaks, and I don't have to fake the tears that well up. "I just want my baby to be okay."
The young guard looks away, his jaw tight.
I wait, letting the silence stretch out and letting him sit with what I've said. I can see the conflict playing out across his features, his sense of duty warring with his conscience. "If you cooperate," he says finally, his voice low, "nothing bad will happen to you. Just—just stay quiet and cooperate."
I don't believe him. But I nod anyway, wiping at my eyes with shaking hands. "Okay. I'll cooperate. I promise."
He nods, looking relieved that I'm not going to make this harder for him.
I wait a few minutes, letting the silence settle. Then, carefully, I speak again. "Do you have a family?"
"Stop talking."
"I'm sorry. I just—I'm trying not to think about what might happen. Talking helps." I pause, then add softly, "Does your mother know what you do for a living?"
His face goes rigid, and I know I've hit something. "My mother's dead," he says flatly.
"I'm sorry." I bite my lip. “My mother isn’t here any longer, either.”
His gaze flicks to mine. He doesn't respond, but his shoulders drop slightly. The weapon in his hand lowers just a fraction.
"What was her name?" I ask.
His jaw works, and for a moment, I think he’s not going to answer. “Maria,” he says finally. “Made the best lasagna."
"I bet she did." I smile, even though my heart is pounding. "The best food always comes from someone who loves you."
He looks at me, and I can see him struggling, trying to reconcile the job he's been given with the person sitting in front of him.
"You seem like a good person," I say quietly. "I don't think you want to hurt me."
