Page 83 of The Voicemail

Tomaso lunges, not at me, but at Bianchi. The guard reacts first, grabbing him around the shoulders. Tomaso drives an elbow back into the man’s ribs, and the guard from outside my door rushes in to help. Bianchi steps back with more irritation than fear, and for a few seconds every pair of eyes is off me. I take the opening.

The letter opener is already in my hand. I shove out of the chair and slip through the office door while they’re still wrestling Tomaso toward the hall.

Someone shouts behind me. I turn left, away from Bianchi.

The hallway spits me into the kitchen. Stainless steel tables, stacked sheet pans, dark ovens, a mop bucket against the wall, and a back door with a keypad beside it. Kitchens have exits. Even restaurants run by criminals have delivery doors and trash alleys and fire codes.

I run for the back door. The handle doesn’t move. I jab the letter opener into the gap near the latch. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’ve watched Maya break into her own apartment with a credit card twice, and I try to channel that energy with a stolen office supply and zip-tied wrists.

“Come on,” I whisper.

The kitchen door bangs open behind me. I turn to see Tomaso standing there, breathing hard, blood at his lip and something wild in his eyes.

For one stupid second, I think he’s still angry at Bianchi. Then he looks at the letter opener in my hand. His face changes.

“You used me.”

I tighten my grip. “You kidnapped me.”

“You lied to me.”

“You stalked me for months. I am not apologizing for being dishonest while tied up in a restaurant.”

“I was trying to help you.”

“You were trying to keep me.”

He moves toward me.

I back up until the locked door hits my spine. “Tomaso, stay away from me.”

“No,” he spits, his voice cracking. “Don’t look at me like I’m one of them.”

“You are one of them.”

His expression folds in on itself, and I know before he moves that I’ve pushed too hard. He reaches for me. I slash the letter opener across his arm.

The cut isn’t deep, but it bleeds enough to shock him. He stares at the red line like he can’t believe I did it.

I duck under his arm and run for the other side of the kitchen. His hand closes on the back of my hoodie before I make it three steps. The fabric bites into my throat, and I stumble backward into a prep table hard enough to send pain shooting through my hip.

My hands go to my stomach before I can stop them. Tomaso notices. His gaze drops to where my hands are pressed. I move before his confusion can turn into understanding.

There’s a metal mixing bowl on the table beside me. I grab it with both hands and swing it at his face. It cracks against him, and he staggers back, swearing.

I run again. He catches me again. This time his arm locks around my waist, and panic goes bright and sharp through my whole body. I can’t thrash blindly, or twist wrong, or let this be how I lose something no one else even knows exists.

I drive my heel down on his foot instead. His grip loosens. I turn as much as I can and jam the letter opener toward his shoulder. It sinks in deeper than I expect. He screams so loud I almost drop it.

Then he hits me hard. My head snaps to the side, and the kitchen tilts. I slam into the edge of the prep table and start to fall, but I twist at the last second so my shoulder takes the impact.

Pain bursts through my arm. I breathe through it or try to. Tomaso stands over me, bleeding from his arm and his shoulder, eyes bright with rage.

“You ruined everything,” he says.

I taste blood in my mouth.

“There was never anything to ruin,” I tell him honestly. “I was never yours.”