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Marcello has been keeping me in his bedroom for the majority of the time I’ve been here. It hasn’t been that long, not realistically, but I’ve never felt more like a prisoner in my entire life. Even in prisons, the inmates are allowed to go outside or interact with each other. I suppose I feel more like an exotic bird in an improperly sized cage, only to be visited and played with when my captor sees fit.
He’s left me a few books to read while he’s off maintaining his criminal enterprise, and I’m not shocked at all with the selection he’s chosen for me.The Forty-Eight Laws of Power,Dark Psychology, andThe Fountainhead. Either he’s looking for a challenge, or he doesn’t believe I’m intelligent enough to make use of the information in these books.
Maybe he just doesn’t read unless he wants the upper hand on someone.
However, he could leave me all of the most enriching, informative books on the planet, and it wouldn’t stop me from trying to escape from him.
Even though his house is gorgeous and enviable, I know that this situation is a ticking time bomb. Despite how much time I’ve spent obsessing over him, I have no idea what kind of person he actually is. My only indication of his true personality is the way he’s been treating me since I got here, which has been nothing more than an annoyance. He seems to have a short temper and control issues, so that doesn’t help my case at all.
My only hope is that hehasbeen flirting with me, intentionally or otherwise, giving me a small window into his impenetrable psyche. Like almost all of the men I’ve encountered as a woman, it’s the only form of vulnerability that men will give up this easily. Even a hardened criminal like Marcello has needs that he’s trying to meet.
For now, though, all I have is a series of password combinations that I can use on his office phone. If I can get out of this room long enough to access it, I’ll call the police.
Marcello wasn’t subtle about the code that he was typing in, but I’m anxious about getting it wrong enough times to lock myself out of the phone completely. What would he do if he knew I was trying to escape, especially by way of the police? Would he kill me?
Chills run up my spine as the realization hits me.
Marcello can andwillkill me if he catches me.
The only way out of this room that isn’t the main door is the sliding patio door, which Marcello has been diligent about locking every time he returns from the outside to smoke. I don’t want to go out the main door, risking him or any of his men seeing me. The sliding door will at least give me the suggestion of innocence if I’m able to pull it off.
But how?
It locks with a key, which is a feature I’ve never seen in a sliding door before. There’s a reason Marcello is so obsessed with security, and I need to get the fuck out of here before that reason catches up to us both.
I’m certain that Marcello has the key on him at all times, so I’m not even going to try to locate it in a hidden compartment or hollowed book.
I need to be more resourceful.
There’s a master bathroom connected to the bedroom that I still have regular access to by the grace of my captor. I haven’t taken the time to go through any of his things, even just out of curiosity. There has to be something I can use to pick the lock.
Anything.
I make my way over to the bathroom, opening the drawer on the right side of the sink. There’s absolutely nothing in it. What the fuck?
Opening the second drawer proves just as pointless. There’s nothing in any of these drawers. What kind of person doesn’t even keep spare razors or toothpaste in their vanity drawers? Is Marcello some kind of android who doesn’t use basic grooming tools?
I guess it wouldn’t be out of the question with the way he’s treating me.
The mirror doesn’t hide anything behind it, so I move on to the linen closet. I find what I would expect, but nothing more. Towels, soap, aftershave. Marcello is so organized for a man that it’s both impressive and questionable.
So far, nothing I can use.
I go back to the drawers by the sink, remembering that I saw a black streak in the second drawer from the bottom. It’s a long shot, but it might provide me with some insight.
The streak appears to be black pencil eyeliner, indicating that this drawer likely belonged to one of Marcello’s past flames. Jealousy races through me for a split second as I think deeper on it, but that’s not what I’m here for.
I feel along the edges of the back of the drawer, and I feel it – a little black hairpin that got stuck between the boards.
Feeling a mixture of anxiety and blind hope, I rush over to the sliding door to pick the lock open. I know it’s not as easy to do as everyone thinks, but this lock can’t be that much more complicated than the ones I used to try picking as a kid in my mom’s old apartment.
After a few failed attempts, I start to grow frustrated. Why can’t a single fucking thing go right for me? Not ever?
Taking a deep breath, I try one last time, and the latch unlocks effortlessly.
I want to cry with joy, but I’ve only completed the first of a series of dangerous tasks. Getting down to the ground floor to Marcello’s office is the riskiest part of all this, and I still haven’t figured out a way to do so.
Sneaking out the sliding door onto the patio, I glance down in the general direction of where I’ve been picturing his office to be. The window is cracked, likely to let the smoke out as he puffs incessantly on cigarettes and cigars.
