Dante nods, his eyes cold. “It’ll be ashes by sunrise.”
27
MIA
You would have thought by now that I might have become well acquainted with imprisonment. Perhaps, on some masochistic level, my isolated pregnancy had almost prepared me for this.
But I would do it again—nine months of loneliness. I’d do it a hundred times to spare myself three days of agony.
Three days of confinement, fear, and a silence so thick I can barely breathe through it.
When I close my eyes, I try to picture Liza and Luca’s tiny faces, the way their small hands grasped at mine. The thought of them makes my chest ache and my spirits soar. Do they miss me? Will they even remember me if I don’t make it out of here?
And Leon…
Is he dead? Is he dead? Is he dead?
The words echo through me more consistently than my one heartbeat.
“She doesn’t shut up, even in her sleep,” someone sneers.
Another chuckles—a low and ugly sound. “She’ll crack soon enough. They always do.”
My stomach growls a loud and empty protest. I’ve barely eaten since they dragged me here, and I’m not sure I could keep food down even if I had it. I bite down hard on my lip, forcing myself not to react.
Let them think I’m breaking. Let them underestimate me.
My cell is a windowless box barely big enough to stand in. The cot I lie in smells of mildew, but it’s better than the cold floor.
Sleep doesn’t come. I’m constantly haunted by the fractured memories of Leon bleeding on the casino floor and the twins crying out for me. I thrash against the blankets, jolting into a state of half-consciousness as I try to reach for them.
I swallow hard, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill. I can’t let myself think like this. Not when the guards outside are looking for any excuse to make my life a misery.
Like every other day, time passes until the moment the cell door opens.
The guards aren’t gentle. They learned the hard way that I’m not some subdued little damsel in distress—the scabbed-over scratch marks on their faces are a testament to that.
My body is a live wire of exhaustion, every muscle trembling as I shuffle down the dim hallway, guards flanking me on either side. Their hands hover near their weapons, just in case.
From what I’ve managed to deduce so far, I’m in some kind of compound. I’ve been stealing glances as we walk down corridors that seem alive with activity.
It’s sprawling, like an ant colony, with corridors branching off into who-knows-where. I count every door, every intersection, every detail I can store away for later—if later ever comes.
But there are too many of them. Everywhere I look, eyes follow me, sizing me up. Waiting for me to step out of line.
The interrogation room is stark and cold; its single metal chair bolted to the floor before a table. The guards waste no time tying me up, my restraints biting into my skin as I sink into the unforgiving seat.
The fluorescent light overhead buzzes faintly, a persistent hum that drills into my skull. The room feels smaller today, or maybe it’s just me shrinking under the weight of exhaustion and hunger.
Just like every other day, Carmen enters a bit later.
Her posture is perfect, hands folded neatly on the table. Her beautiful curls are tied back from her blank face, making her usually soft features seem so much more severe. Or perhaps that’s just the lighting.
“Tell me where they’re moving next, Mia.” Her voice is a razor slicing through the silence.
Perhaps it’s just the lighting, but there’s torment in her expression, in the darkness of her eyes, the bags beneath them, the tightness of her lips, the bob of her throat. A slight tremor in her hand.
Oh Carmen, what did they do to you?
