Gina
He steps into view, the dim light from a distant streetlamp casting his face in shadows. Two men flank him, the same ones I spotted earlier. They block the only exit.
I back up against the cold stone wall, feeling its rough surface scrape against my palms. My gaze darts frantically, searching for something, anything, a fire escape, a service door, a Goddamn miracle. There’s nothing.
“Did you really think you could run from me?” Vittorio asks, his voice almost gentle. “From your father? From… who you are?”
“I’m not who you think I am,” I say, hating the tremor in my voice.
He smiles, a slow, predatory curl of his lips. “You’re exactly what I think you are. A Pressutti. Your father’s daughter. My future wife.”
“Never.” The word rips from my throat, raw and defiant.
“Never is a ve
