Gina
But as I weave between tables, I already know what I have to do. There’s no reasoning with Vittorio. There’s no negotiating. If I get on that plane, my life is over.
I hurry down the hallway to the bathroom, my sneakers screeching on the floor. Entering the bathroom, my reflection splinters across gold-framed mirrors lining the walls—pale face, wide eyes, hair escaping its neat ponytail. I look exactly like what I am: prey. The bathroom door swings shut behind me with a soft whoosh, and I flick the lock and gasp in a breath that feels like my first in hours. My hands shake as I check each stall, making sure I’m alone, before locking myself in the one furthest from the door.
My heart pounds so hard I swear it’s visible through my shirt, a cartoon thump-thump-thump that might burst t
