His hand drops.
Coward.
“FuckPlan A,” he hisses. “You don’t get that courtesy anymore. That’s the price for the disrespect today.” He sneers back toward the guard. “From the both of you. Now fuck off. I need to go wipe this shit off my face.”
With that, he storms out, slamming the door shut behind him. And despite the pain I’m in, the despair rotting in my gut, the hope fading in my heart, and the swirling images of Raffaele, one thought threads just above the surface, painting the faintest smirk on my cracked lips.
God, what a whiny little bitch.
36
BEA
Victor’s angry footsteps fade down the hallway until they’re swallowed.
Then it’s just me and the guard.
He’s already back on his phone. The whole exchange of the last ten minutes might as well not have happened on his end. He’s waiting for the next thing to be his problem.
My ghost of a grin fades, replaced by a more focused frown.
He didn’t help Victor. In fact, he almost actively seems to loathe the man. Could that give me an opening?
“Hey.”
He doesn’t look up.
“Hey. You.”
A long sigh out of his nose, like I’m an annoying child.
“What?”
“I need your help.”
He laughs. Not really—more of a snort, I guess. Incredulous. Dismissive.
“Sure you do.”
“I’m serious.”
“Lady.” He finally looks up. “Listen. I don’t help Victor. I don’t help you. I collect my check at the end of the night, and I mind my own business, and that’s how I’m still alive at forty-three. So whatever pitch you’re about to make, skip it.”
I’ve got one card. I’m going to have to play it now, because there isn’t going to be a better opportunity for me.
“Text Raffaele for me,” I gulp, trying to force confidence into my voice and soul.
If there’s a chance Raffaele is still alive, then I have to believe he is. It’s my only hope. My only reason for even trying to survive.
“Excuse me?”
“Raffaele D’Amico. You’ve got a phone. I’ve got his number. Text him. Tell him where I am. That’s it.”
“Lady. The guy’s dead.”
“No, he’s not.”
“You just heard?—”
