Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance (12 page)

I nod. Finally, she's getting it. “That I am. And now I'm your bastard, Princess, like it or not!”

MARIE

Everyone is afraid to talk to me, and for once I'm glad. My cell phone buzzes on the corner of my dresser, turning in a slow circle for about the millionth time.

I don't have to answer it. I don’t have to do anything. They can't make me. This isn’t at the old country, or the 50s, or whatever. I can do what I want, at least in theory.

I glance at the chain on my bedroom door. At least it’s still in place. Every once in awhile I hear somebody walking around downstairs, but they can't get in here. It’s the only place in the entire house they can't get into if I don't want them. Everything else is sort of public property, just like me, I suppose. Just property.

At first I wondered how they were doing without me at the club, how Gianna was doing, but now I don't even care. At least that beast Roman hasn’t tried to break down the door yet. Alek I would peg for more of a scale-the-exterior-wall-sort. Something flashier.

But neither has shown up. I keep expecting it, keep dreaming where Alek comes bursting through the window, or Roman through the door. Or one of them flowing through the air vents like smoke. They’re haunting me.

In my dreams, I'm outside, just walking around. Going to the store or the movies or whatever. And then Roman is there, his breath in my ears and his hands on my skin. I slip away somehow but Alek is there, popping up in my path like he knew where I would be. I want to run but I can't go anywhere. It's like his fingers are cages. He doesn't even hurt me, I hurt myself. I turn around and Roman is there too. I throw myself at the bars of the cage until I'm bleeding.

But they are the cage. They are the trap, and I know it.

I'm fairly certain that they're not calling as often now. Daddy must have given one of them my number, probably Roman. And then Roman must have given it to Alek since he seems to like to talk so damn much.

At first it seemed like my phone was ringing with calls and texts every few minutes. Then the times between just got longer and longer as they got the hint. It probably seems natural, right? Of course I don't want to come out. Of course I want some time to myself.

But I'm just waiting for my moment, and I think my moment is here. The phone starts buzzing again and I count to twenty, then it stops. If it doesn't ring again for another four minutes, I'm going to do it.

I'm leaving. I'm done.

Over the past several days, I've packed everything. Piece by piece, with long periods of time in between in case there are cameras in here, in case there are microphones. I couldn't just open every drawer and dump everything into a bag. I had to do it little by little.

Luckily, I was already about halfway there. But gathering everything from soap to shoes to cosmetics took some doing. I didn't want to arouse suspicion, didn’t want to find Nuncio with an ax taking down my door if Daddy figured it out.

It's been two minutes, and the phone hasn’t rung again. I stare at the backpack. After some thought, I decided one bag was all I needed. One backpack plus one purse with $12,000 in the bottom of it. That's it. It had better be enough.

The backpack only has essential things. I'm leaving behind a whole wardrobe. Any girl would kill for this wardrobe, and I only took a few pairs of jeans and some nondescript T-shirts out of it. Everything else can stay. I won’t need it anymore. I can buy things at thrift stores or something, whenever I get to where I'm going.

If only I knew where that was.

Three minutes.

Taking a deep breath, I open up my bag and drag out my wallet. I snap it open and pull out four of the five credit cards. I won’t be able to use credit cards, they’re too easy to trace. Just cash from now on. That's it.

Three minutes and thirty seconds.

Suddenly I hear footsteps in the kitchen, shuffling and the sound of pots. They're all in the kitchen, yelling and cooking something apparently. Nuncio, maybe Bobby. Maybe Rico and Steveo, what do I know? There could be a whole battalion of soldiers in my kitchen right now, just waiting for something to do. Starting on breakfast. Waiting for the chance to either save me or arrest me. Put me back in my prison, safe and sound.

Four minutes.

All right, let's go.

Taking an elastic from the cup in my bathroom, I put my hair up in a high ponytail and cover that with a knit cap. Pulling it down over my eyes I carefully open the chain on my door, then turn the handle as silently as I can. I hear their voices in the kitchen, laughing and joking as the espresso machine heats up. That's excellent. Couldn't have planned it better. I wait for the sound of foaming milk, that loud roar of the steam wand, and then I dash down the front stairs in my sneakers and silently slip out the front door.

Miraculously, Nuncio is not out here. Everybody's in the kitchen. I hold my breath and run as fast as I can, turning left immediately and heading through a gangway between two buildings, then down the alley, then right toward the hospital.

In two minutes I'm breathless and still sprinting and further from my apartment than I thought I would be. Excitement bubbles in my chest and I feel like I've just been let off my leash. I want to turn around in circles like a puppy who doesn't know what he's doing yet.

A taxi swerves past me and I’m about to raise my hand, but then I stop. If they figure it out, that's exactly what they'll expect. Daddy knows all the cab companies, and they’ll find me in moments.

But up ahead, I see the blue sign for the L. I can take the L train to the airport, and they would never look for me that way. They would never think that I would actually just go ahead and take public transportation. So that’s exactly what I'm going to do.

***

It's like a dream. Everything I have is now in these two bags, my starter kit. The first day of the rest of my life, I think as I look out the windows of the train car. Between stations, it’s just hazy glass. Then we slow toward the station to see the banks of fluorescent lights and the tiled walls. Guys with guitars and hats on the floor. Signs of the nearest intersection. The train starts up again.

People get on, people get off, while I sit here clutching my two bags like life rafts. People get on, people get off. Then the doors close and the train shoots into the darkness again.

Closer to downtown, the tracks rise and we emerge from the ground to the elevated tracks that circle downtown. There are probably half a million people in these offices, just trained to ignore the el as it rumbles outside their businesses. They don’t even know I’m here. They don’t even care. I could be any one of them.

We come to another stop and I leave the car, standing still on the platform and waiting for the other train that will get me the rest of the way to the airport. People walk past me, not even looking at me. I'm just some regular girl, maybe a college student or something. I feel utterly, deliciously anonymous.

I get on the blue train and find a seat. The same sorts of people glance at me and then away, looking back at their phones and their magazines like I don't even exist. I almost want to cry out, to tell them what I've done. They don't even know the kind of jailbreak I just pulled off. Everybody would be so impressed if they knew.

It takes about another half an hour before we are cruising alongside the highway, getting close to the airport. The rocking of the train is so soothing, I almost want to sleep, but my whole body is buzzing with anticipation.

Finally, we slow at the last stop: the end of the line. The doors open and everybody piles out into the subterranean station. Long escalators stretch up into the ticket area, and as I'm standing on a stair, trying to be calm, I have to suppress another wave of noisy glee.

Unconsciously, my hand goes to my pocket because I want to text Gianna. But I know that's the wrong thing to do. I can't reach out to her, not yet. She’ll be so disappointed… Yet so happy. She knew I wanted to do this, knew I'd been saving up for years. I didn’t know it would be so soon, but I knew that one day I would get out. One day I would be free.

My eyes scan the departures list as I'm waiting in line, trying to pick where I should go. Could be anywhere, really. There's a whole world of places. To be honest, the best place for me to go is probably Halifax, or Alberta. Somewhere in Canada. I doubt anyone would look for me there.

But instead I decide to treat myself to something a little less snowy and look at the flight to Argentina. It seems like a sort of poetic thing to do, fly to Argentina and retire. Live out my days over the water somewhere, drinking tiny coffees and talking to other expatriates.

I should change my name. What should it be? Loretta. That sounds good.

No wait. That is a country music star.

Amber. Ricky. Toni. Lisette. Eloise.

A million names. I could take any one. A different one every day. The possibilities are breathtaking.

Or, more sensibly. I could just use my middle name, Francesca. That might be a little easier, because Daddy calls me Francesca sometimes. At least I might remember to respond when people call me.

Oh, Daddy. A wave of remorse surges inside me. He's going to be so sad. I know it. Even though he's gruff and horrible sometimes, this is going to break his heart.

The ticket agent waves me forward, and I step ahead boldly into the empty space in front of her. I drop my passport and drivers license down at the counter and slide them to her.

“Argentina, please. The next flight,” I say in a trembling voice.

She snaps open my passport and peers at it, then compares it with my drivers license. After tapping into her keyboard, she gives me one of those professional smiles and raises her eyebrows. “Return date?”

I take a deep breath and smile. “One way,” I whisper.

She nods, crinkling her eyes at the edges.

Any moment now, I expect her to stop typing and look up at me, startled. I think that I must be on some kind of universal no-fly list, or a list that says you have to call my daddy in order to get permission.

And yet, there's none of that. Tap tap tap. She reaches down and plucks something off of a printer and then slides it into an envelope, stapling neatly at the corners.

“Checked baggage?”

I can't believe how easy this is. “No, just this,” I say, indicating my backpack.

She slides the envelope toward me with another impersonal smile. Her eyes are already darting over my shoulder to the next person in line. “Have a wonderful flight,” she says as her way of dismissing me.

My mouth is suddenly dry as I pick up the envelope and nod my thanks. I head off toward Customs and wait in line, my lips pressed tightly together so that I don't start singing spontaneously or something.

It's happening. Right now. It's totally happening.

The flight leaves in 55 minutes, down to 35 minutes when I finally get through Customs and taking my shoes off and putting them back on three different times. I scamper along the moving walkways, briskly shooting through the terminal arm toward the airplane that's going to take me away from here. My heart is a hummingbird in my chest. My brain is awash with snippets of pop songs.

Just before I get my gate, I swerve to the left to grab a quick latte. The lady prepares it in a flash, pushing it toward me with my new name scrawled on the bottom.
Luna
. That's a good name. The moon. That's me, waxing and waning. Currently full. Or new. I want to giggle at the thought, ridiculously pleased my own cleverness.

I ask her where the ladies room is and she gestures with her chin. Shouldering my backpack again, I take a quick sip of the sweet, hot latte before heading to the bathroom.

The stalls are hospital clean and flush decisively with a roar that indicates that anything I just left there has been scrubbed away into nothingness. I come back out of the stall and head toward the sink, ready to wash my hands for the last time in Chicago.

I know it sounds silly, but I keep doing that. My last latte in Chicago. My last bathroom flush in Chicago. My last time staring in the mirror in Chicago.

As I'm moving my hands underneath the roar of the hot air dispenser to dry them, I feel the door open behind me. Instinctively I glance over my right shoulder as a tall, stringy, dark-haired man approaches. He must be lost.

I want to explain to him that he's in the wrong place but he looks like he knows me, his mouth curling up in a diagonal smile. I only have time to suck in one yelping breath before he's got his hand clamped firmly over my mouth. Another man comes up swiftly behind him, plucking my two bags off the counter and putting them over his shoulder.

“One word,” says the stringy man, whispering so close to my face that I can smell his rancid coffee breath. Cigarettes and booze. Tooth decay. “One sound out of you, and I’ll slit your throat.”

I shake my head, whimpering, I can’t help it. This can't be happening. This can't be right. I'm so close!

The second guy picks up my coffee cup off the counter and smiles at it. He’s got a gold tooth and a neck tattoo that says “Gabriella” with a lot of curling shapes.

“Luna? That's hilarious,” he scoffs. “Let's just see what we have here…
Marie
.”